THE LOBBY OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.
Mr. Prendergast as he walked out of Spinny Lane, and back to St.
Botolph's church, and as he returned thence again to Bloomsbury
Square in his cab, had a good deal of which to think. In the first
place it must be explained that he was not altogether self-satisfied
with the manner in which things had gone. That he would have made
almost any sacrifice to recover the property for Herbert Fitzgerald,
is certainly true; and it is as true that he would have omitted no
possible effort to discover all that which he had now discovered,
almost without necessity for any effort. But nevertheless he was not
altogether pleased; he had made up his mind a month or two ago that
Lady Fitzgerald was not the lawful wife of her husband; and had come
to this conclusion on, as he still thought, sufficient evidence. But
now he was proved to have been wrong; his character for shrewdness
and discernment would be damaged, and his great ally and chum Mr.
Die, the Chancery barrister, would be down on him with unmitigated
sarcasm. A man who has been right so frequently as Mr. Prendergast,
does not like to find that he is ever in the wrong. And then, had his
decision not have been sudden, might not the life of that old baronet
have been saved?
Mr. Prendergast could not help feeling this in some degree as he
drove away to Bloomsbury Square; but nevertheless he had also the
feeling of having achieved a great triumph. It was with him as with a
man who has made a fortune when he has declared to his friends that
he should infallibly be ruined. It piques him to think how wrong he
has been in his prophecy; but still it is very pleasant to have made
one's fortune.
When he found himself at the top of Chancery Lane in Holborn, he
stopped his cab and got out of it. He had by that time made up his
mind as to what he would do; so he walked briskly down to Stone
Buildings, and nodding to the old clerk, with whom he was very
intimate, asked if he could see Mr. Die. It was his second visit to
those chambers that morning, seeing that he had been there early in
the day, introducing Herbert to his new Gamaliel. "Yes, Mr. Die is
in," said the clerk, smiling; and so Mr. Prendergast passed on into
the well-known dingy temple of the Chancery god himself.
There he remained for full an hour, a message in the meanwhile having
been sent out to Herbert Fitzgerald, begging him not to leave the
chambers till he should have seen Mr. Die; "and your friend Mr.
Prendergast is with him," said the clerk. "A very nice gentleman is
Mr. Prendergast, uncommon clever too; but it seems to me that he
never can hold his own when he comes across our Mr. Die."
At the end of the hour Herbert was summoned into the sanctum, and
there he found Mr. Die sitting in his accustomed chair, with his body
much bent, nursing the calf of his leg, which was always enveloped in
a black, well-fitting close pantaloon, and smiling very blandly. Mr.
Prendergast had in his countenance not quite so sweet an aspect. Mr.
Die had repeated to him, perhaps once too often, a very well-known
motto of his; one by the aid of which he professed to have steered
himself safely through the shoals of life--himself and perhaps some
others. It was a motto which he would have loved to see inscribed
over the great gates of the noble inn to which he belonged; and
which, indeed, a few years since might have been inscribed there
with much justice. "Festinâ lentè," Mr. Die would say to all those
who came to him in any sort of hurry. And then when men accused him
of being dilatory by premeditation, he would say no, he had always
recommended despatch. "Festinâ," he would say; "festinâ" by all
means; but "festinâ lentè." The doctrine had at any rate thriven with
the teacher, for Mr. Die had amassed a large fortune.
Herbert at once saw that Mr. Prendergast was a little fluttered.
Judging from what he had seen of the lawyer in Ireland, he would have
said that it was impossible to flutter Mr. Prendergast; but in truth
greatness is great only till it encounters greater greatness. Mars
and Apollo are terrible and magnificent gods till one is enabled to
see them seated at the foot of Jove's great throne. That Apollo, Mr.
Prendergast, though greatly in favour with the old Chancery Jupiter,
had now been reminded that he had also on this occasion driven
his team too fast, and been nearly as indiscreet in his own rash
offering.
"We are very sorry to keep you waiting here, Mr. Fitzgerald," said
Mr. Die, giving his hand to the young man without, however, rising
from his chair; "especially sorry, seeing that it is your first day
in harness. But your friend Mr. Prendergast thinks it as well that we
should talk over together a piece of business which does not seem as
yet to be quite settled."
Herbert of course declared that he had been in no hurry to go away;
he was, he said, quite ready to talk over anything; but to his mind
at that moment nothing occurred more momentous than the nature of the
agreement between himself and Mr. Die. There was an honorarium which
it was presumed Mr. Die would expect, and which Herbert Fitzgerald
had ready for the occasion.
"I hardly know how to describe what has taken place this morning
since I saw you," said Mr. Prendergast, whose features told plainly
that something more important than the honorarium was now on the
tapis.
"What has taken place?" said Herbert, whose mind now flew off to
Castle Richmond.
"Gently, gently," said Mr. Die; "in the whole course of my legal
experience,--and that now has been a very long experience,--I have
never come across so,--so singular a family history as this of yours,
Mr. Fitzgerald. When our friend Mr. Prendergast here, on his return
from Ireland, first told me the whole of it, I was inclined to think
that he had formed a right and just decision--"
"There can be no doubt about that," said Herbert.
"Stop a moment, my dear sir; wait half a moment--a just decision, I
say--regarding the evidence of the facts as conclusive. But I was
not quite so certain that he might not have been a little--premature
perhaps may be too strong a word--a little too assured in taking
those facts as proved."
"But they were proved," said Herbert.
"I shall always maintain that there was ample ground to induce me to
recommend your poor father so to regard them," said Mr. Prendergast,
stoutly. "You must remember that those men would instantly have been
at work on the other side; indeed, one of them did attempt it."
"Without any signal success, I believe," said Mr. Die.
"My father thought you were quite right, Mr. Prendergast," said
Herbert, with a tear forming in his eye; "and though it may be
possible that the affair hurried him to his death, there was
no alternative but that he should know the whole." At this Mr.
Prendergast seemed to wince as he sat in his chair. "And I am sure of
this," continued Herbert, "that had he been left to the villanies of
those two men, his last days would have been much less comfortable
than they were. My mother feels that quite as strongly as I do." And
then Mr. Prendergast looked as though he were somewhat reassured.
"It was a difficult crisis in which to act," said Mr. Prendergast,
"and I can only say that I did so to the best of my poor judgment."
"It was a difficult crisis in which to act," said Mr. Die, assenting.
"But why is all this brought up now?" asked Herbert.
"Festinâ lentè," said Mr. Die; "lentè, lentè lentè; always lentè. The
more haste we make in trying to understand each other, with the less
speed shall we arrive at that object."
"What is it, Mr. Prendergast?" again demanded Herbert, who was now
too greatly excited to care much for the Chancery wisdom of the great
barrister. "Has anything new turned up about--about those Molletts?"
"Yes, Herbert, something has turned up--"
"Remember, Prendergast, that your evidence is again incomplete."
"Upon my word, sir, I do not think it is: it would be sufficient for
any intellectual jury in a Common Law court," said Mr. Prendergast,
who sometimes, behind his back, gave to Mr. Die the surname of
Cunctator.
"But juries in Common Law courts are not always intelligent. And
you may be sure, Prendergast, that any gentleman taking up the case
on the other side would have as much to say for his client as your
counsel would have for yours. Remember, you have not even been to
Putney yet."
"Been to Putney!" said Herbert, who was becoming uneasy.
"The onus probandi would lie with them," said Mr. Prendergast. "We
take possession of that which is our own till it is proved to belong
to others."
"You have already abandoned the possession."
"No; we have done nothing already: we have taken no legal step; when
we believed--"
"Having by your own act put yourself in your present position, I
think you ought to be very careful before you take up another."
"Certainly we ought to be careful. But I do maintain that we may be
too punctilious. As a matter of course I shall go to Putney."
"To Putney!" said Herbert Fitzgerald.
"Yes, Herbert, and now, if Mr. Die will permit, I will tell you
what has happened. On yesterday afternoon, before you came to dine
with me, I received that letter. No, that is from your cousin, Owen
Fitzgerald. You must see that also by-and-by. It was this one,--from
the younger Mollett, the man whom you saw that day in your poor
father's room."
Herbert anxiously put out his hand for the letter, but he was again
interrupted by Mr. Die. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Fitzgerald, for a
moment. Prendergast, let me see that letter again, will you?" And
taking hold of it, he proceeded to read it very carefully, still
nursing his leg with his left hand, while he held the letter with his
right.
"What's it all about?" said Herbert, appealing to Prendergast almost
in a whisper.
"Lentè, lentè, lentè, my dear Mr. Fitzgerald," said Mr. Die, while
his eyes were still intent upon the paper. "If you will take
advantage of the experience of gray hairs, and bald heads,"--his
own was as bald all round as a big white stone--"you must put up
with some of the disadvantages of a momentary delay. Suppose now,
Prendergast, that he is acting in concert with those people in--what
do you call the street?"
"In Spinny Lane."
"Yes; with his father and the two women there."
"What could they gain by that?"
"Share with him whatever he might be able to get out of you."
"The man would never accuse himself of bigamy for that. Besides, you
should have seen the women, Die."
"Seen the women! Tsh--tsh--tsh; I have seen enough of them, young and
old, to know that a clean apron and a humble tone and a down-turned
eye don't always go with a true tongue and an honest heart. Women are
now the most successful swindlers of the age! That profession at any
rate is not closed against them."
"You will not find these women to be swindlers; at least I think
not."
"Ah! but we want to be sure, Prendergast;" and then Mr. Die finished
the letter, very leisurely, as Herbert thought.
When he had finished it, he folded it up and gave it back to Mr.
Prendergast. "I don't think but what you've a strong primâ facie
case; so strong that perhaps you are right to explain the whole
matter to our young friend here, who is so deeply concerned in it.
But at the same time I should caution him that the matter is still
enveloped in doubt."
Herbert eagerly put out his hand for the letter. "You may trust me
with it," said he: "I am not of a sanguine temperament, nor easily
excited; and you may be sure that I will not take it for more than it
is worth." So saying, he at last got hold of the letter, and managed
to read it through much more quickly than Mr. Die had done. As he did
so he became very red in the face, and too plainly showed that he had
made a false boast in speaking of the coolness of his temperament.
Indeed, the stakes were so high that it was difficult for a young man
to be cool while he was playing the game: he had made up his mind to
lose, and to that he had been reconciled; but now again every pulse
of his heart and every nerve of his body was disturbed. "Was never
his wife," he said out loud when he got to that part of the letter.
"His real wife living now in Spinny Lane! Do you believe that Mr.
Prendergast?"
"Yes, I do," said the attorney.
"Lentè, lentè, lentè," said the barrister, quite oppressed by his
friend's unprofessional abruptness.
"But I do believe it," said Mr. Prendergast: "you must always
understand, Herbert, that this new story may possibly not be true--"
"Quite possible," said Mr. Die, with something almost approaching to
a slight laugh.
"But the evidence is so strong," continued the other, "that I do
believe it heartily. I have been to that house, and seen the man, old
Mollett, and the woman whom I believe to be his wife, and a daughter
who lives with them. As far as my poor judgment goes," and he made
a bow of deference towards the barrister, whose face, however,
seemed to say, that in his opinion the judgment of his friend Mr.
Prendergast did not always go very far--"As far as my poor judgment
goes, the women are honest and respectable. The man is as great
a villain as there is unhung--unless his son be a greater one;
but he is now so driven into a corner, that the truth may be more
serviceable to him than a lie."
"People of that sort are never driven into a corner," said Mr. Die;
"they may sometimes be crushed to death."
"Well, I believe the matter is as I tell you. There at any rate is
Mollett's assurance that it is so. The woman has been residing in the
same place for years, and will come forward at any time to prove that
she was married to this man before he ever saw--before he went to
Dorsetshire: she has her marriage certificate; and as far as I can
learn there is no one able or willing to raise the question against
you. Your cousin Owen certainly will not do so."
"It will hardly do to depend upon that," said Mr. Die, with another
sneer. "Twelve thousand a year is a great provocative to litigation."
"If he does we must fight him; that's all. Of course steps will be
taken at once to get together in the proper legal form all evidence
of every description which may bear on the subject, so that should
the question ever be raised again, the whole matter may be in a
nutshell."
"You'll find it a nutshell very difficult to crack in five-and-twenty
years' time," said Mr. Die.
"And what would you advise me to do?" asked Herbert.
That after all was now the main question, and it was discussed
between them for a long time, till the shades of evening came upon
them, and the dull dingy chambers became almost dark as they sat
there. Mr. Die at first conceived that it would be well that Herbert
should still stick to the law. What indeed could be more conducive
to salutary equanimity in the mind of a young man so singularly
circumstanced, than the study of Blackstone, of Coke, and of Chitty?
as long as he remained there, at work in those chambers, amusing
himself occasionally with the eloquence of the neighbouring courts,
there might be reasonable hope that he would be able to keep his mind
equally poised, so that neither success nor failure as regarded his
Irish inheritance should affect him injuriously. Thus at least argued
Mr. Die. But at this point Herbert seemed to have views of his own:
he said that in the first place he must be with his mother; and then,
in the next place, as it was now clear that he was not to throw up
Castle Richmond--as it would not now behove him to allow any one else
to call himself master there,--it would be his duty to reassume the
place of master. "The onus probandi will now rest with them," he
said, repeating Mr. Prendergast's words; and then he was ultimately
successful in persuading even Mr. Die to agree that it would be
better for him to go to Ireland than to remain in London, sipping the
delicious honey of Chancery buttercups.
"And you will assume the title, I suppose?" said Mr. Die.
"Not at any rate till I get to Castle Richmond," he said, blushing.
He had so completely abandoned all thought of being Sir Herbert
Fitzgerald, that he had now almost felt ashamed of saying that he
should so far presume as to call himself by that name.
And then he and Mr. Prendergast went away and dined together, leaving
Mr. Die to complete his legal work for the day. At this he would
often sit till nine or ten, or even eleven in the evening, without
any apparent ill results from such effects, and then go home to his
dinner and port wine. He was already nearly seventy, and work seemed
to have no effect on him. In what Medea's caldron is it that the
great lawyers so cook themselves, that they are able to achieve half
an immortality, even while the body still clings to the soul? Mr.
Die, though he would talk of his bald head, had no idea of giving
way to time. Superannuated! The men who think of superannuation at
sixty are those whose lives have been idle, not they who have really
buckled themselves to work. It is my opinion that nothing seasons the
mind for endurance like hard work. Port wine should perhaps be added.
It was not till Herbert once more found himself alone that he fully
realized this new change in his position. He had dined with Mr.
Prendergast at that gentleman's club, and had been specially called
upon to enjoy himself, drinking as it were to his own restoration in
large glasses of some special claret, which Mr. Prendergast assured
him was very extraordinary.
"You may be as satisfied as that you are sitting there that that's
34," said he; "and I hardly know anywhere else that you'll get it."
This assertion Herbert was not in the least inclined to dispute. In
the first place, he was not quite clear what 34 meant, and then any
other number, 32 or 36, would have suited his palate as well. But he
drank the 34, and tried to look as though he appreciated it.
"Our wines here are wonderfully cheap," said Mr. Prendergast,
becoming confidential; "but nevertheless we have raised the price of
that to twelve shillings. We'll have another bottle."
During all this Herbert could hardly think of his own fate and
fortune, though, indeed, he could hardly think of anything else.
He was eager to be alone, that he might think, and was nearly
broken-hearted when the second bottle of 34 made its appearance.
Something, however, was arranged in those intercalary moments between
the raising of the glasses. Mr. Prendergast said that he would write
both to Owen Fitzgerald and to Mr. Somers; and it was agreed that
Herbert should immediately return to Castle Richmond, merely giving
his mother time to have notice of his coming.
And then at last he got away, and started by himself for a night walk
through the streets of London. It seemed to him now to be a month
since he had arrived there; but in truth it was only on the yesterday
that he had got out of the train at the Euston Station. He had come
up, looking forward to live in London all his life, and now his
London life was over,--unless, indeed, those other hopes should come
back to him, unless he should appear again, not as a student in Mr.
Die's chamber, but as one of the council of the legislature assembled
to make laws for the governance of Mr. Die and of others. It was
singular how greatly this episode in his life had humbled him in his
own esteem. Six months ago he had thought himself almost too good for
Castle Richmond, and had regarded a seat in Parliament as the only
place which he could fitly fill without violation to his nature.
But now he felt as though he should hardly dare to show himself
within the walls of that assembly. He had been so knocked about by
circumstances, so rudely toppled from his high place,--he had found
it necessary to put himself so completely into the hands of other
people, that his self-pride had all left him. That it would in fact
return might be held as certain, but the lesson which he had learned
would not altogether be thrown away upon him.
At this moment, as I was saying, he felt himself to be completely
humbled. A lie spoken by one of the meanest of God's creatures had
turned him away from all his pursuits, and broken all his hopes; and
now another word from this man was to restore him,--if only that
other word should not appear to be the greater lie! and then that
there should be such question as to his mother's name and fame--as
to the very name by which she should now be called! that it should
depend on the amount of infamy of which that wretch had been guilty,
whether or no the woman whom in the world he most honoured was
entitled to any share of respect from the world around her! That she
was entitled to the respect of all good men, let the truth in these
matters be where it might, Herbert knew, and all who heard the story
would acknowledge. But respect is of two sorts, and the outer respect
of the world cannot be parted with conveniently.
He did acknowledge himself to be a humbled man,--more so than he had
ever yet done, or had been like to do, while conscious of the loss
which had fallen on him. It was at this moment when he began to
perceive that his fortune would return to him, when he became aware
that he was knocked about like a shuttlecock from a battledore, that
his pride came by its first fall. Mollett was in truth the great
man,--the Warwick who was to make and unmake the kings of Castle
Richmond. A month ago, and it had pleased Earl Mollett to say that
Owen Fitzgerald should reign; but there had been a turn upon the
cards, and now he, King Herbert, was to be again installed.
He walked down all alone through St. James's Street, and by Pall Mall
and Charing Cross, feeling rather than thinking of all this. Those
doubts of Mr. Die did not trouble him much. He fully believed that he
should regain his title and property; or rather that he should never
lose them. But he thought that he could never show himself about the
country again as he had done before all this was known. In spite of
his good fortune he was sad at heart, little conscious of the good
that all this would do him.
He went on by the Horse Guards and Treasury Chambers into Parliament
Street, and so up to the new Houses of Parliament, and sauntered into
Westminster Hall; and there, at the privileged door between the lamps
on his left hand, he saw busy men going in and out, some slow and
dignified, others hot, hasty, and anxious, and he felt as though the
regions to and from which they passed must be far out of his reach.
Could he aspire to pass those august lamp-posts, he whose very name
depended on what in truth might have been the early doings of a low
scoundrel who was now skulking from the law?
And then he went on, and mounting by the public stairs and anterooms
found his way to the lobby of the house. There he stood with his back
to the ginger-beer stall, moody and melancholy, looking on as men in
the crowd pushed forward to speak to members whom they knew; or, as
it sometimes appeared, to members whom they did not know. There was
somewhat of interest going on in the house, for the throng was thick,
and ordinary men sometimes jostled themselves on into the middle of
the hall--with impious steps; for on those centre stones none but
legislators should presume to stand.
"Stand back, gentlemen, stand back; back a little, if you please,
sir," said a very courteous but peremptory policeman, so moving the
throng that Herbert, who had been behind, in no way anxious for a
forward place, or for distinguishing nods from passing members, found
himself suddenly in the front rank, in the immediate neighbourhood of
a cluster of young senators who were cooling themselves in the lobby
after the ardour of the debate.
"It was as pretty a thing as ever I saw in my life," said one, "and
beautifully ridden." Surely it must have been the Spring Meeting and
not the debate that they were discussing.
"I don't know much about that," said another, and the voice sounded
on Herbert's ears as it might almost be the voice of a brother. "I
know I lost the odds. But I'll have a bottle of soda-water. Hallo,
Fitzgerald! Why--;" and then the young member stopped himself, for
Herbert Fitzgerald's story was rife about London at this time.
"How do you do, Moulsey?" said Herbert, very glumly, for he did not
at all like being recognized. This was Lord Moulsey, the eldest
son of the Earl of Hampton Court, who was now member for the River
Regions, and had been one of Herbert's most intimate friends at
Oxford.
"I did not exactly expect to see you here," said Lord Moulsey,
drawing him apart. "And upon my soul I was never so cut up in my life
as when I heard all that. Is it true?"
"True! why no;--it was true, but I don't think it is. That is to
say--upon my word I don't know. It's all unsettled--Good evening to
you." And again nodding his head at his old friend in a very sombre
manner, he skulked off and made his way out of Westminster Hall.
"Do you know who that was?" said Lord Moulsey going back to his ally.
"That was young Fitzgerald, the poor fellow who has been done out
of his title and all his property. You have heard about his mother,
haven't you?"
"Was that young Fitzgerald?" said the other senator, apparently more
interested in this subject than he had even been about the pretty
riding. "I wish I'd looked at him. Poor fellow! How does he bear it?"
"Upon my word then, I never saw a fellow so changed in my life. He
and I were like brothers, but he would hardly speak to me. Perhaps I
ought to have written to him. But he says it's not settled."
"Oh, that's all gammon. It's settled enough. Why they've given up the
place. I heard all about it the other day from Sullivan O'Leary. They
are not even making any fight. Sullivan O'Leary says they are the
greatest fools in the world."
"Upon my word I think young Fitzgerald was mad just now. His manner
was so very odd."
"I shouldn't wonder. I know I should go mad if my mother turned out
to be somebody else's wife." And then they both sauntered away.
Herbert was doubly angry with himself as he made his way down
into the noble old hall,--angry that he had gone where there was
a possibility of his being recognized, and angry also that he
had behaved himself with so little presence of mind when he was
recognized. He felt that he had been taken aback, that he had been
beside himself, and unable to maintain his own dignity; he had run
away from his old intimate friend because he had been unable to bear
being looked on as the hero of a family tragedy. "He would go back
to Ireland," he said to himself, "and he would never leave it again.
Perhaps he might teach himself there to endure the eyes and voices of
men around him. Nothing at any rate should induce him to come again
to London." And so he went home to bed in a mood by no means so happy
as might have been expected from the result of the day's doings. And
yet he had been cheerful enough when he went to Mr. Die's chambers in
the morning.