HERRIARD AND ALEXIA
A less keen observer than Gastineau might have suspected that
the position of Herriard and Countess Alexia was, at any rate on
Herriard’s side, rapidly exceeding that of counsel and client. And
it was, particularly in a man of Herriard’s temperament, scarcely
to be wondered at. All through the trying stages of the case he had
been brought into close and more than mere professional relations
with the von Rohnburgs, while between him and the Count a friendship,
founded on the secure foundation of reciprocal liking, had sprung
up. Firmly and absolutely convinced as Herriard was of Alexia’s
innocence, so completely, indeed, that the slander roused him to a
quite unlawyer-like state of indignation, it came as a shock to find
Gastineau coolly arguing upon the supposition and accepting the fact
that she was guilty. Certainly, he told himself, Gastineau does not
know her, has but a vague recollection of her over some four or five
years back; he takes her as a mere pawn upon the legal chess-board:
he has a cynical disbelief in women; it is but to be expected that he
should think the worst of her; I might have realized all this, and not
been such a fool as to resent his suggestion.
Nevertheless, the bare idea that any one, even a dry, quibbling lawyer,
could for a moment admit the possibility that this woman, whose
soul shone clear and true from her eyes, whose every word carried a
conviction of honesty, could have done a man to death in secret, and
then have entrenched herself behind a rampart of skilfully-woven lies,
was to him utterly inconceivable. True, the deed, had she really been
guilty of it, would naturally have been committed under stress of great
provocation. Captain Martindale’s character and want of principle where
women were concerned were well known: no one would have been surprised
at his finding a reprisal at the hand of those whom, as a chartered
Philander, he had loved and laughed at. Natural, too, it would have
been, if having been driven to that fatal stroke, she should have
fought against discovery by every means in her power. For, putting
aside the consequences of the deed, it would have been a fight for
her honour. No; it was not the probabilities of the case, considered
generally, which weighed with Herriard, but his utter inability to
believe this thing of this woman. And, as his feeling for her almost
insensibly grew warmer, the more preposterous did the notion appear. So
when Gastineau mooted it in his cold-blooded, cynical way, it came as a
shock, as a suggestion which filled Herriard with abhorrence. His whole
soul recoiled from the idea, as from a monstrous impossibility.
And this conviction was confirmed when, a night or two afterwards,
he dined quietly with the Countess and her brother. All through her
animated talk, happier now, in the good news that had come, he searched
her face for a sign of guile, of a reservation of the truth, of an
_arrière pensée_: looked till he was ashamed of himself for being
led to doubt; and saw nothing but frankness and honesty. Clever she
was, and possessed of wonderful self-command, but it was a cleverness
unmixed with deceit, the reverse of wisdom, not falsehood.
Both Alexia and her brother were cheerful that night, happier than they
had been since the charge was first levelled. There was a second guest,
a countryman of the von Rohnburgs, Dr. Hallamar, the Austrian surgeon
who had returned to England on a professional visit. It was a pleasant
little party; the four being all completely in accord and sympathy. The
doctor naturally felt strongly the way in which the Countess had been
treated; he was a strong man, an acute thinker who suggested rather
than expressed the depth of his opinions.
After dinner the two guests were left for a few moments alone.
“Mr. Herriard,” the doctor said, with more warmth than he seemed given
to show, “you are a lawyer; it is your professional duty not only to
defend but to think the best of your client, to maintain her innocence
against the world; but now, tell me, not as a lawyer, but as a man, I
will not say an English gentleman, for there the code of honour guides
and restricts you, but as a man of brains and worldly knowledge, you
do not in your heart believe that it is possible for our hostess to be
guilty of this dastardly charge?”
Herriard had little difficulty in responding to the somewhat
extraordinary invitation. “I should be willing to stake my life on the
Countess’s absolute innocence,” he declared resolutely.
“I was sure of it,” the other observed.
“You, too, Doctor,” Herriard continued eagerly, “you are a man who has
doubtless seen much of human nature and its capabilities of deception,
does your observation tell you that disingenuousness is possible here?”
Hallamar shook his head emphatically. “Not for one moment.”
“I am glad to have your confirmation of my conviction,” Herriard
replied. “But I would maintain it against any man’s opinion for all
that,” he added with a smile.
The doctor merely acknowledged his enthusiasm with a gesture as Count
Prosper rejoined them.
When they went upstairs the Count and Hallamar became deep in a
discussion in their own language, and Herriard found himself with
Alexia.
“You have a downright champion, Countess, in the Professor,” Herriard
said.
“I was hoping,” she returned, “that I no longer needed one.”
“I hope and believe so too,” he replied. Then added in a lower tone, “I
shall be sorry though, to think that my office has come to an end.”
For an instant her eyes rested on his face, then she looked away. “It
may, happily, come to an end officially, since its work will have been
accomplished, but it will never be forgotten.”
The last words were spoken low, with just the suspicion of a tremor in
them. It seemed to pass to Herriard, as he responded, “Ah, Countess,
how you reward me!”
“Reward you? Can I ever do that?” she said.
“Indeed you can, far above my deserts,” he answered, with the spell of
her voice and presence, of her mood attuned, as it seemed, to his own,
thrilling through him. “Although it is unnecessary; the fight in your
cause has been its own reward.”
There was a little pause, as though the subject had run as far as it
might venture. Then Alexia spoke.
“Ah, if I dared believe that the worst was over now!”
“I think you may,” he replied. “I do not see how this new evidence can
be shaken.”
“You are not absolutely certain?” Her eyes were fixed on his face, and
he felt she was reading him.
He thought of Gastineau and his almost scoffing scepticism. He longed
to feel able to tell her that all fear and doubt were passed, yet, with
the memory of his mentor’s views, he could not, and felt a brute in
consequence.
“I believe it,” he answered, hoping the evasion was not apparent. “My
own opinion is that this man’s evidence settles the question so far as
you are concerned.”
“But you think others may not share it?” she asked shrewdly.
“I think,” he answered, “that others, who are interested, as half the
world is, in believing the worst, may be reluctant to share it.”
Alexia was leaning back, bitterly reflective. “The world, our world, is
very cruel,” she said.
“The world,” he replied, “craves for amusement. Left to its own
resources it is a dull world, and is constantly growing duller. So
its amusements must ever be increasing in pungency. Strong contrasts
and mental vivisection are its intellectual pastimes, the cant of
a spurious broad-mindedness which affects hesitation in condemning
vice, since there is none who can claim virtue, and at the same time
prejudges the maligned for a like reason. Our modern Pharisees’ boast
is not that they are virtuous, but vicious, and they call Heaven to
witness that they claim to be no better than the rest of mankind.”
Alexia was looking at him searchingly with a touch of disappointment.
“You are a cynic,” she said simply, yet with wistful conviction.
“Not I,” he replied frankly, and at his prompt denial her face
brightened.
He hated himself for so easily falling into the trick of Gastineau’s
pessimistic speech. “No: I am a believer in the honest, right-thinking
minority, although my profession prevents me from shutting my eyes to
the mental attitude of the rest. On the surface, at any rate, it is a
cruel world, Countess, and I am more sorry than I can express, to know
that you, of all women, have felt its hardness, its injustice. But
please don’t think me a cynic.”
The smile she gave more than reassured him. “I won’t,” she murmured,
“although I began to fear you were one.”
His voice was low as hers as he rejoined, “I never shall be now that I
have known you.”
She laughed now. “If it were not too serious for a joke I should tell
you to wait till our case is decided.”
“Countess,” he protested, “it has long been decided in my mind,
unassailably decided.”
“Ah,” she said, “that was your duty. You could scarcely do less than
believe in your client.”
“I might,” he rejoined, “have done much less.”
“And what convinced you?” she asked.
“My client herself,” he answered.
Then again, just as their hearts seemed to come near to one another,
they drew away again. Perhaps to her the time appeared not ripe, while
on his part, a chilling shadow seemed to intervene between him and his
love; the figure of Gastineau, the brain, whose mouthpiece he was.
His relations with Gastineau formed, indeed, a consideration which had
begun to exercise his mind very disagreeably, and which he felt must in
honour make him pause before declaring his love for Alexia. She would
take him as he took her, judging by fair outward appearance, by the
affinity of their beings, by--in short--by that reciprocal personal
attraction which produces love. On her side, doubtless, the foundation
for regard, the regard which he hoped and believed was ripening
into love, had been admiration. He had been in her service skilful,
courageous, chivalrous; he seemed to have sprung to her side when
sorely pressed, as her champion, almost heaven-sent, and, apart from
the professional relation in the matter, her gratitude and admiration
were unbounded. No doubt the personal element had much to do with this.
Chance might have given for her defence a dry, crabbed old lawyer, a
Macvee, dusty, aggressive and uncompromising, who would yet have served
her well, at the same time regarding her merely as a client rather
more interesting than usual. But Geoffrey Herriard was very different.
He was comparatively a young man; he had, if not a handsome, at least
an interesting clear-cut face; he was an attractive personality, a
rising politician, an already risen member of the Bar. His career was
assured, and his history carried with it that interest which successful
cleverness can always claim. What wonder, then, that Alexia, almost
a woman of the world, at least a _femme faite_, though she might be,
should grow more and more attracted by her counsel who had quickly
become her friend as well as her brother’s?
And yet, as Herriard kept telling himself all through the days and
nights, he was a lie; a living, pleading, arguing, ingratiating lie.
His form, his voice were his own, and that was all. The brain he took
credit for was another man’s. The telling speeches, the masterly
conduct of the case, the shrewd arguments, even the smart retorts by
which he scored, were no more his than are Shakespeare’s lines the
actor’s who utters them.
So he stood that day, a fraud, a living sham, a man who took credit
for achievements which were not his, for work which he, unaided, could
never have brought to a successful accomplishment. And the worst of his
position was, as he now felt it, that the excuse he might make told
against him, was, in fact, the crux of his situation. For its avowal,
the confession of the fraud, was out of the question. Were he not bound
in honour to the friend, to whom he owed everything, not to divulge
the secret; could he for very shame make it known that for years he
had been living and thriving and gaining fame by another man’s brains?
True, the situation had been acquiesced in by the other man, but would
that be accepted as an excuse by the world which had hailed him,
Geoffrey Herriard, as a supremely clever fellow? The world would feel
it had been swindled out of its applause; it would turn and resent the
cheat.
Then, supposing he cared nothing for the world and its sneers, that
he was prepared to brazen the matter out, should it come to light, to
let its success justify the trick, how would it be with Alexia? Could
he ever hope to rehabilitate himself in her eyes? He told himself, he
knew it with absolute conviction, that she was as the soul of honour;
how could he declare himself to her as an incarnation of falsehood?
Sometimes he felt he could wish that she were guilty of this charge;
it would at most have been a venial crime, and it would bring them a
little nearer to an equality in wrong-doing.
Then, often, in the conflict of his love, he would wish that he could
break himself free of Gastineau: that he could run alone now, looking
upon the past partnership as a term of mere pardonable tutelage. Then
honour, never driven out from his false life, would rise and rebuke
him for ingratitude. Still, he would argue, the bond between himself
and Gastineau could scarcely be expected to run for the term of their
lives. It would have to be determined sooner or later; and, after all,
the benefit derived from the partnership was in some degree mutual. The
sword which Gastineau had put into his hand, and the skill in fence
which he had taught him, had been greatly used to stab the disabled
fencer’s rivals and enemies, to prevent them from profiting by the
disappearance of their old adversary. In the intoxicating whirl of
success which had hurried him onwards and upwards, Herriard had not
found pause to realize the true, inevitable logic of his position. Love
was now the Nemesis which was bringing it bitterly home to him.
And that same night the foreshadowing of another and totally
unthought-of contingency rose to disturb him. This time it came from
his fellow guest, and in this way.
The men had bid the Countess good-night, and had gone down to the
Count’s study to smoke and chat before separating. Presently their
host began to ask the Professor about his work, and then it was that
Herriard learned a fact which gave him food for thought, welcome or
unwelcome, he could not for the moment decide. He had met Dr. Hallamar
several times already, had accepted without further question the
fact that he was one of Vienna’s most distinguished pathologists,
and although inclined to wonder that one so eminent and naturally
sought after at home should spend so much time in England, had, from
a reluctance to talk “shop,” which his good breeding prompted, spoken
little to the doctor of their respective professions. But now he was
for the first time to be made aware of Hallamar’s specialty.
The basis on which the Professor’s fame, now European, rested, was the
treatment of spinal disease and lesions, in the practice of which he
had performed some marvellous cures. And Herriard had up to that moment
never been aware of this.
“Severe spinal injuries are not, then, necessarily incurable?” he
asked, waking up to the knowledge and the interest the subject held
for him, as he joined in the conversation with somewhat remarkable
eagerness.
“Certainly not,” was the doctor’s laconic reply.
“Even when the patient has been deprived of the use of the lower limbs?”
Hallamar gave a shrug. “Some cases are incurable, yes. But it has been
my privilege to cure many which had been pronounced hopeless.”
“The results of accidents, say railway accidents?”
“Certainly. It is to railway accidents that very many, if not the
majority, of these cases of total loss of power in the lower limbs from
shock are to be attributed.”
“And you cure them, Professor?”
Hallamar bowed, with a little deprecating smile. “I have the happiness
to cure many.”
“Of course, Herriard,” Count Prosper struck in. “That is why the
Professor is here. One does not travel a thousand miles to make
experiments: one need not leave Vienna for that, eh? But what is fame?
Here is Herriard, a great man at the Bar and in Parliament who has
never heard of the wonders which Professor Rudolph Hallamar performs.”
“When one is deeply immersed in one’s own profession, one has little
opportunity for looking round at the work of other men in other
spheres,” the doctor observed, in polite excuse. “I have found that
pathological work has little interest for healthy laymen.”
“Nevertheless,” Herriard replied, with more truth than the two other
men gave him credit for, “your work, now I have heard of it, does
interest me exceedingly.”