THE LAWYERS AGREE.
When a month had passed by a great many people knew how Mr. Daniel
Thwaite had come by the wound in his back, but nobody knew it
"officially." There is a wide difference in the qualities of
knowledge regarding such matters. In affairs of public interest we
often know, or fancy that we know, down to every exact detail, how a
thing has been done,--who have given the bribes and who have taken
them,--who has told the lie and who has pretended to believe it,--who
has peculated and how the public purse has suffered,--who was in
love with such a one's wife and how the matter was detected, then
smothered up, and condoned; but there is no official knowledge, and
nothing can be done. The tailor and the Earl, the Countess and her
daughter, had become public property since the great trial had been
commenced, and many eyes were on them. Before a week had gone by it
was known in every club and in every great drawing-room that the
tailor had been shot in the shoulder,--and it was almost known that
the pistol had been fired by the hands of the Countess. The very
eminent surgeon into whose hands Daniel had luckily fallen did not
press his questions very far when his patient told him that it would
be for the welfare of many people that nothing further should be
asked on the matter. "An accident has occurred," said Daniel, "as to
which I do not intend to say anything further. I can assure you that
no injury has been done beyond that which I suffer." The eminent
surgeon no doubt spoke of the matter among his friends, but he always
declared that he had no certain knowledge as to the hand which fired
the pistol.
The women in Keppel Street of course talked. There had certainly been
a smoke and a smell of gunpowder. Mrs. Richards had heard nothing.
Sarah thought that she had heard a noise. They both were sure that
Daniel Thwaite had been much the worse for drink,--a statement which
led to considerable confusion. No pistol was ever seen,--though
the weapon remained in the old desk for some days, and was at last
conveyed out of the house when the Countess left it with all her
belongings. She had been afraid to hide it more stealthily or even
throw it away, lest her doing so should be discovered. Had the law
interfered,--had any search-warrant been granted,--the pistol would,
of course, have been found. As it was, no one asked the Countess a
question on the subject. The lawyers who had been her friends, and
had endeavoured to guide her through her difficulties, became afraid
of her, and kept aloof from her. They had all gone over to the
opinion that Lady Anna should be allowed to marry the tailor, and had
on that account become her enemies. She was completely isolated, and
was now spoken of mysteriously,--as a woman who had suffered much,
and was nearly mad with grief, as a violent, determined, dangerous
being, who was interesting as a subject for conversation, but one not
at all desirable as an acquaintance. During the whole of this month
the Countess remained in Keppel Street, and was hardly ever seen by
any but the inmates of that house.
Lady Anna had returned home all alone, on the evening of the day on
which the deed had been done, after leaving her lover in the hands
of the old nurse with whose services he had been furnished. The rain
was still falling as she came through Russell Square. The distance
was indeed short, but she was wet and cold and draggled when she
returned; and the criminality of the deed which her mother had
committed had come fully home to her mind during the short journey.
The door was opened to her by Mrs. Richards, and she at once asked
for the Countess. "Lady Anna, where have you been?" asked Mrs.
Richards, who was learning to take upon herself, during these
troubles, something of the privilege of finding fault. But Lady
Anna put her aside without a word, and went into the parlour. There
sat the Countess just as she had been left,--except that a pair of
candles stood upon the table, and that the tea-things had been laid
there. "You are all wet," she said. "Where have you been?"
"He has told me all," the girl replied, without answering the
question. "Oh, mamma;--how could you do it?"
"Who has driven me to it? It has been you,--you, you. Well;--what
else?"
"Mamma, he has forgiven you."
"Forgiven me! I will not have his forgiveness."
"Oh, mamma;--if I forgive you, will you not be friends with us?" She
stooped over her mother, and kissed her, and then went on and told
what she had to tell. She stood and told it all in a low voice, so
that no ear but that of her mother should hear her,--how the ball had
hit him, how it had been extracted, how nothing had been and nothing
should be told, how Daniel would forgive it all and be her friend,
if she would let him. "But, mamma, I hope you will be sorry." The
Countess sat silent, moody, grim, with her eyes fixed on the table.
She would say nothing. "And, mamma,--I must go to him every day,--to
do things for him and to help to nurse him. Of course he will be my
husband now." Still the Countess said not a word, either of approval
or of dissent. Lady Anna sat down for a moment or two, hoping that
her mother would allow her to eat and drink in the room, and that
thus they might again begin to live together. But not a word was
spoken nor a motion made, and the silence became awful, so that the
girl did not dare to keep her seat. "Shall I go, mamma?" she said.
"Yes;--you had better go." After that they did not see each other
again on that evening, and during the week or ten days following they
lived apart.
On the following morning, after an early breakfast, Lady Anna went to
Great Russell Street, and there she remained the greater part of the
day. The people of the house understood that the couple were to be
married as soon as their lodger should be well, and had heard much of
the magnificence of the marriage. They were kind and good, and the
tailor declared very often that this was the happiest period of his
existence. Of all the good turns ever done to him, he said, the wound
in his back had been the best. As his sweetheart sat by his bedside
they planned their future life. They would still go to the distant
land on which his heart was set, though it might be only for awhile;
and she, with playfulness, declared that she would go there as Mrs.
Thwaite. "I suppose they can't prevent me calling myself Mrs.
Thwaite, if I please."
"I am not so sure of that," said the tailor. "Evil burs stick fast."
It would be vain now to tell of all the sweet lovers' words that were
spoken between them during those long hours;--but the man believed
that no girl had ever been so true to her lover through so many
difficulties as Lady Anna had been to him, and she was sure that she
had never varied in her wish to become the wife of the man who had
first asked her for her love. She thought much and she thought often
of the young lord; but she took the impress of her lover's mind, and
learned to regard her cousin, the Earl, as an idle, pretty popinjay,
born to eat, to drink, and to carry sweet perfumes. "Just a
butterfly," said the tailor.
"One of the brightest butterflies," said the girl.
"A woman should not be a butterfly,--not altogether a butterfly," he
answered. "But for a man it is surely a contemptible part. Do you
remember the young man who comes to Hotspur on the battlefield, or
him whom the king sent to Hamlet about the wager? When I saw Lord
Lovel at his breakfast table, I thought of them. I said to myself
that spermaceti was the 'sovereignest thing on earth for an inward
wound,' and I told myself that he was of 'very soft society, and
great showing.'" She smiled, though she did not know the words he
quoted, and assured him that her poor cousin Lord Lovel would not
trouble him much in the days that were to come. "He will not trouble
me at all, but as he is your cousin I would fain that he could be a
man. He had a sort of gown on which would have made a grand frock for
you, sweetheart;--only too smart I fear for my wife." She laughed
and was pleased,--and remembered without a shade either of regret
or remorse the manner in which the popinjay had helped her over the
stepping-stones at Bolton Abbey.
But the tailor, though he thus scorned the lord, was quite willing
that a share of the property should be given up to him. "Unless you
did, how on earth could he wear such grand gowns as that? I can
understand that he wants it more than I do, and if there are to be
earls, I suppose they should be rich. We do not want it, my girl."
"You will have half, Daniel," she said.
"As far as that goes, I do not want a doit of it,--not a penny-piece.
When they paid me what became my own by my father's will, I was rich
enough,--rich enough for you and me too, my girl, if that was all.
But it is better that it should be divided. If he had it all he
would buy too many gowns; and it may be that with us some good will
come of it. As far as I can see, no good comes of money spent on
race-courses, and in gorgeous gowns."
This went on from day to day throughout a month, and every day Lady
Anna took her place with her lover. After a while her mother came up
into the drawing-room in Keppel Street, and then the two ladies again
lived together. Little or nothing, however, was said between them
as to their future lives. The Countess was quiet, sullen,--and to a
bystander would have appeared to be indifferent. She had been utterly
vanquished by the awe inspired by her own deed, and by the fear which
had lasted for some days that she might be dragged to trial for the
offence. As that dread subsided she was unable to recover her former
spirits. She spoke no more of what she had done and what she had
suffered, but seemed to submit to the inevitable. She said nothing of
any future life that might be in store for her, and, as far as her
daughter could perceive, had no plans formed for the coming time. At
last Lady Anna found it necessary to speak of her own plans. "Mamma,"
she said, "Mr. Thwaite wishes that banns should be read in church for
our marriage."
"Banns!" exclaimed the Countess.
"Yes, mamma; he thinks it best." The Countess made no further
observation. If the thing was to be, it mattered little to her
whether they were to be married by banns or by licence,--whether her
girl should walk down to church like a maid-servant, or be married
with all the pomp and magnificence to which her rank and wealth might
entitle her. How could there be splendour, how even decency, in such
a marriage as this? She at any rate would not be present, let them be
married in what way they would. On the fourth Sunday after the shot
had been fired the banns were read for the first time in Bloomsbury
Church, and the future bride was described as Anna Lovel,--commonly
called Lady Anna Lovel,--spinster. Neither on that occasion, or on
either of the two further callings, did any one get up in church to
declare that impediment existed why Daniel Thwaite the tailor and
Lady Anna Lovel should not be joined together in holy matrimony.
In the mean time the lawyers had been at work dividing the property,
and in the process of doing so it had been necessary that Mr. Goffe
should have various interviews with the Countess. She also, as the
undisputed widow of the late intestate Earl, was now a very rich
woman, with an immense income at her control. But no one wanted
assistance from her. There was her revenue, and she was doomed to
live apart with it in her solitude,--with no fellow-creature to
rejoice with her in her triumph, with no dependant whom she could
make happy with her wealth. She was a woman with many faults,--but
covetousness was not one of them. If she could have given it all
to the young Earl,--and her daughter with it, she would have been
a happy woman. Had she been permitted to dream that it was all so
settled that her grandchild would become of all Earl Lovels the most
wealthy and most splendid, she would have triumphed indeed. But, as
it was, there was no spot in her future career brighter to her than
those long years of suffering which she had passed in the hope that
some day her child might be successful. Triumph indeed! There was
nothing before her but solitude and shame.
Nevertheless she listened to Mr. Goffe, and signed the papers that
were put before her. When, however, he spoke to her of what was
necessary for the marriage,--as to the settlement, which must, Mr.
Goffe said, be made as to the remaining moiety of her daughter's
property,--she answered curtly that she knew nothing of that. Her
daughter's affairs were no concern of hers. She had, indeed, worked
hard to establish her daughter's rights, but her daughter was now of
age, and could do as she pleased with her own. She would not even
remain in the room while the matter was being discussed. "Lady Anna
and I have separate interests," she said haughtily.
Lady Anna herself simply declared that half of her estate should be
made over to her cousin, and that the other half should go to her
husband. But the attorney was not satisfied to take instructions on
a matter of such moment from one so young. As to all that was to
appertain to the Earl, the matter was settled. The Solicitor-General
and Serjeant Bluestone had acceded to the arrangement, and the
Countess herself had given her assent before she had utterly
separated her own interests from those of her daughter. In regard
to so much, Mr. Goffe could go to work in conjunction with Mr.
Flick without a scruple; but as to that other matter there must be
consultations, conferences, and solemn debate. The young lady, no
doubt, might do as she pleased; but lawyers can be very powerful. Sir
William was asked for his opinion, and suggested that Daniel Thwaite
himself should be invited to attend at Mr. Goffe's chambers, as soon
as his wound would allow him to do so. Daniel, who did not care for
his wound so much as he should have done, was with Mr. Goffe on the
following morning, and heard a lengthy explanation from the attorney.
The Solicitor-General had been consulted;--this Mr. Goffe said,
feeling that a tailor would not have a word to say against so high
an authority;--the Solicitor-General had been consulted, and was of
opinion that Lady Anna's interests should be guarded with great care.
A very large property, he might say a splendid estate, was concerned.
Mr. Thwaite of course understood that the family had been averse
to this marriage,--naturally very averse. Now, however, they were
prepared to yield.
The tailor interrupted the attorney at this period of his speech. "We
don't want anybody to yield, Mr. Goffe. We are going to do what we
please, and don't know anything about yielding."
Mr. Goffe remarked that all that might be very well, but that, as so
large a property was at stake, the friends of the lady, according to
all usage, were bound to interfere. A settlement had already been
made in regard to the Earl.
"You mean, Mr. Goffe, that Lady Anna has given her cousin half her
money?"
The attorney went on to say that Mr. Thwaite might put it in that
way if he pleased. The deeds had already been executed. With regard
to the other moiety Mr. Thwaite would no doubt not object to a
trust-deed, by which it should be arranged that the money should be
invested in land, the interest to be appropriated to the use of Lady
Anna, and the property be settled on the eldest son. Mr. Thwaite
would, of course, have the advantage of the income during his wife's
life. The attorney, in explaining all this, made an exceedingly good
legal exposition, and then waited for the tailor's assent.
"Are those Lady Anna's instructions?"
Mr. Goffe replied that the proposal was made in accordance with the
advice of the Solicitor-General.
"I'll have nothing to do with such a settlement," said the tailor.
"Lady Anna has given away half her money, and may give away the
whole if she pleases. She will be the same to me whether she comes
full-handed or empty. But when she is my wife her property shall be
my property,--and when I die there shall be no such abomination as an
eldest son." Mr. Goffe was persuasive, eloquent, indignant, and very
wise. All experience, all usage, all justice, all tradition, required
that there should be some such settlement as he had suggested. But it
was in vain. "I don't want my wife to have anything of her own before
marriage," said he; "but she certainly shall have nothing after
marriage,--independent of me." For a man with sound views of domestic
power and marital rights always choose a Radical! In this case there
was no staying him. The girl was all on his side, and Mr. Goffe, with
infinite grief, was obliged to content himself with binding up a
certain portion of the property to make an income for the widow,
should the tailor die before his wife. And thus the tailor's marriage
received the sanction of all the lawyers.
A day or two after this Daniel Thwaite called upon the Countess.
It was now arranged that they should be married early in July, and
questions had arisen as to the manner of the ceremony. Who should
give away the bride? Of what nature should the marriage be? Should
there be any festival? Should there be bridesmaids? Where should they
go when they were married? What dresses should be bought? After what
fashion should they be prepared to live? Those, and questions of a
like nature, required to be answered, and Lady Anna felt that these
matters should not be fixed without some reference to her mother.
It had been her most heartfelt desire to reconcile the Countess to
the marriage,--to obtain, at any rate, so much recognition as would
enable her mother to be present in the church. But the Countess had
altogether refused to speak on the subject, and had remained silent,
gloomy, and impenetrable. Then Daniel had himself proposed that he
would see her, and on a certain morning he called. He sent up his
name, with his compliments, and the Countess allowed him to be shown
into her room. Lady Anna had begged that it might be so, and she had
yielded,--yielded without positive assent, as she had now done in
all matters relating to this disastrous marriage. On that morning,
however, she had spoken a word. "If Mr. Thwaite chooses to see me, I
must be alone." And she was alone when the tailor was shown into the
room. Up to that day he had worn his arm in a sling,--and should then
have continued to do so; but, on this visit of peace to her who had
attempted to be his murderer, he put aside this outward sign of the
injury she had inflicted on him. He smiled as he entered the room,
and she rose to receive him. She was no longer a young woman;--and no
woman of her age or of any other had gone through rougher usage;--but
she could not keep the blood out of her cheeks as her eyes met
his, nor could she summon to her support that hard persistency of
outward demeanour with which she had intended to arm herself for the
occasion. "So you have come to see me, Mr. Thwaite?" she said.
"I have come, Lady Lovel, to shake hands with you, if it may be so,
before my marriage with your daughter. It is her wish that we should
be friends,--and mine also." So saying, he put out his hand, and the
Countess slowly gave him hers. "I hope the time may come, Lady Lovel,
when all animosity may be forgotten between you and me, and nothing
be borne in mind but the old friendship of former years."
"I do not know that that can be," she said.
"I hope it may be so. Time cures all things,--and I hope it may be
so."
"There are sorrows, Mr. Thwaite, which no time can cure. You have
triumphed, and can look forward to the pleasures of success. I have
been foiled, and beaten, and broken to pieces. With me the last is
worse even than the first. I do not know that I can ever have another
friend. Your father was my friend."
"And I would be so also."
"You have been my enemy. All that he did to help me,--all that
others have done since to forward me on my way, has been brought
to nothing--by you! My joys have been turned to grief, my rank has
been made a disgrace, my wealth has become like ashes between my
teeth;--and it has been your doing. They tell me that you will be my
daughter's husband. I know that it must be so. But I do not see that
you can be my friend."
"I had hoped to find you softer, Lady Lovel."
"It is not my nature to be soft. All this has not tended to make me
soft. If my daughter will let me know from time to time that she is
alive, that is all that I shall require of her. As to her future
career, I cannot interest myself in it as I had hoped to do.
Good-bye, Mr. Thwaite. You need fear no further interference from
me."
So the interview was over, and not a word had been said about the
attempt at murder.