Produced by Gardner Buchanan with corrections by Bowerbird
THE
ADVOCATE
A NOVEL
BY
CHARLES HEAVYSEGE,
Author of "Saul," "Jephthah's Daughter."
&c., &c., &c.
ILLUSTRATED BY J. ALLAN.
(engraved by John Henry Walker after illustrations by J. Allan)
MONTREAL
RICHARD WORTHINGTON,
GREAT ST. JAMES STREET.
1865.
M. LONGMOORE & CO., PRINTERS.
[Illustration: Stillyside]
THE ADVOCATE.
CHAPTER I.
"Take, oh take those lips away,
That so sweetly were forsworn;
And those eyes, the break of day,
Lights that do mislead the morn:
But my kisses bring again,
bring again
Seals of love, but sealed in vain,
seal'd in vain."
_Measure for Measure._
On a bright day during the month of September, of the year 1800,
two persons were in earnest conversation in a lawyer's office in
the city of Montreal. One of them was the most distinguished
advocate of that place; a man of some three score years, and of a
commanding yet wild and singular aspect. His companion was a
well-dressed female of middle age, and comely, though mournful
countenance. Some disagreeable topic seemed to have just ruffled
both of their tempers, for her face was moist with tears, and
darkened with an expression of disappointment. His own was slightly
marked with annoyance, and, suddenly ceasing to arrange some folded
law papers that he held in his hands, and had gathered up from the
table at which he was standing, he exclaimed in tones of mingled
surprise and asperity: "Still at the old song! still harping,
harping, harping! Peace, no more of it. Heaven would be insufferable
with but one hymn, hell thrice horrible with but one howl, earth
uninhabitable with but one evil. Oh, variety, what a charm hast
thou!"
"Is this, then, all your answer?" enquired the female, sorrowfully.
"Is it not decisive?" he demanded sharply. "Woman, away: am I not
busy? Is not this the very Passion week of preparation before the
Easter of the Assizes?" Then with an upward leer of his eyes, that
were now filled with frolicksome humour, whilst at the corners of
his mouth flickered a grim smile, he continued: "Mona Macdonald,
I am neither selfish nor sensual, though women call me so; not
prone to be provoked to marriage; though Satan in your shape has
for so many years tempted me thereto, I have still remained in the
bachelors' Eden, in spite of you and the Serpent. Marry you! Do I
look in the humour for mischief? Do I appear vile enough to commit
the unpardonable sin? No, a man may put himself beyond the reach
of mercy by other means than that."
Mona looked up and sighed, and he continued:
"What more is marriage than mere desert sands, in which life's
current is lost until it reappears in a parcel of bubbles called
babies. What is it but the fool's end, the knave's means; a warning
to the wise, a snare to the simple; the wantonness of youth, the
weakness of years; a pillory wherein to exercise patience; what is
it but the Church's stocks for the wayward feet of women. Marry
you! To marry is to commit two souls to the prison of one body; to
put two pigs into one poke; two legs into one boot, two arms into
one sleeve, two heads into one hat, two necks into one noose, two
corpses into one coffin, and this into a wet grave, for marriage
is a perennial spring of tears. Marry! Why should I bind myself
with a vow that I must break, not being by nature continent and
loving? Marry you! Yes, when I hate you. Have I a sinistrous look
to meditate such mischief? Do I seem old enough to be a bridegroom?
Pish! I am ashamed to be so importuned."
[Illustration: "Do I seem old enough to be a bridegroom?"]
This badinage was uttered with the fire of youth, combined with
the authority of age, accustomed to be obeyed, and the listener
offered no rejoinder; but the speaker, having approached, gazed
into her eyes with a twinkling smile of mirth, that gradually
changed to one of fondness and pity; and kissing her respectfully,
he added in a soft tone: "Come, come, how is the maid Amanda, how
fares our charming foundling?"
"Well," was quietly replied.
"Mona, I love that girl," he continued, assuming a tone of deep
sincerity, "for along with the whole web of your goodness, nature
has interwoven into the fine fabric of her form a thread of my
evil--not in the grosser sense,--no, no; still, look after her;
the breath of passion must be stirring in her, and at her years
most maids are tinder to love's dropping sparks. Remember, there
never yet was a nun but once had tender thoughts. Love comes unto
all that live, and with not less certainty than death's advances
--nay, even the cold, bony frame of death itself, at last comes
wooing, and elopes with life. Now, home and cheer your charge."
And he playfully pushed her from the room, then, throwing himself
into his chair, resumed the interrupted study of his briefs.