bishop of poverty, he would tell the story of the bee-keeping curé,
following up his anecdote with the advice: ‘Keep bees—keep bees!’
A FRIEND OF THE FAMILY.
CHAPTER III.—A GRAVE ACCUSATION.
Thus valiant, the Major entered the library at the appointed time. He
was, however, taken aback on finding that it was not only the gentlemen
he had to confront, but also two of the ladies—Mrs Joseph and Mrs John.
Nellie had positively refused to be present. He had not bargained
for an examination in the presence of the ladies, for he could not
say before them what he must say in order to exculpate himself. He
felt that he was being very unfairly treated. But he was thankful for
small mercies. They might have had Miss Euphemia in to witness his
humiliation—for humiliation it must be to confess his stupidity in
despatching the letters in the wrong envelopes.
The Squire was seated at his writing-table, and assumed something of
his magisterial air (he was a J.P.) as he requested the Major to take a
chair. The three letters were on the desk before him; and he proceeded
to read them carefully, whilst profound silence prevailed. Mrs Joseph
darted angry glances alternately at her husband and the culprit.
Mrs John looked more serious than usual, but still showed symptoms
of an inclination to titter. John Elliott stood in the shadow of a
large bookcase; Maynard near the window which opened to the terrace,
impatiently twirling his moustache and at intervals glancing fiercely
towards the Major, who, in his indignation at the whole proceeding,
returned the glance in a like spirit.
The Squire cleared his throat with a raucous cough. ‘You have placed
me in a most painful position, Major,’ he began with an evident desire
to be friendly, which was checked by the frown of his wife. ‘I am as
tolerant as anybody of a joke. You know that well enough, Dawkins; but
I can’t stand such a hoax as you have played upon us in sending these
letters here.’
The Major rose; he felt so much injured, that he was calm. ‘My dear
friend Elliott’——
‘Oh, confound it—there’s the beginning of the plaguy things,’
ejaculated the Squire.
‘Allow me to explain. I intended no hoax. These letters were written
with an earnest desire to avert misunderstanding. Unfortunately, in my
agitation and haste, I blundered.’
‘Not a hoax—not a joke!’ bellowed the Squire, rising to his feet and
thrusting the letters into a drawer of the table. ‘Do you mean to say,
then, that I suspected my wife of anything?’
‘No.’
‘Do you mean to say that a word could be spoken about me in association
with any one which could or should cause Nellie—Miss Carroll—to be
displeased with me?’ broke in Maynard threateningly.
‘No.’
‘Do you mean to say that I am in any way involved with another lady?’
snapped Elliott of Arrowby.
‘No.’
‘Stop a minute,’ interposed Mrs John, in her light-hearted way, coming
to the rescue of Major Dawkins, and turning to her husband. ‘The Major
did not say you were involved, John; he only warned me not to mind any
nonsense I might hear about you. Give our friend time to explain.’
‘I am grateful for your intercession, madam,’ said the Major stiffly.
‘If your husband has read the letter which, as I have told you, fell
into Mrs Joseph’s hands by mischance, he knows precisely how the matter
stands, and I request _him_ to explain, or to speak to me in private.’
‘I have read the letter, of course,’ was the peevish response of John
Elliott; ‘and it does not suggest anything for me to explain, or why
you should require a private interview with me.’
The Major had the opportunity to avenge himself on the instant by
stating before them all why he had written the letters. But Mrs John
was evidently quite ignorant of her husband’s suspicions; why should
he pain her by revealing them? The outcome of the revelation would be
an inevitable rupture between the man and wife. Nellie Carroll had not
heard John Elliott’s scandal about Maynard: why should he, for his
own convenience, stir the stagnant pool and increase the distress he
had already unintentionally caused? No; he would not do that. He had
blundered, and must pay the penalty.
‘Since Mr John Elliott declines to say anything or to grant me a
private interview,’ said the Major firmly, ‘the affair must end here.
I withdraw everything that is written in these unlucky letters, and
request you to give them back to me, so that they may be at once
destroyed.’
‘That won’t do,’ rejoined the Squire gruffly; ‘if you won’t make the
thing clear to us, it has gone too far to end here. I shall place the
letters in the hands of my solicitor to-morrow morning, and leave him
to arrange with you.’
‘In that case, you will provoke a family scandal which will cause you
all much vexation, and cannot possibly do good to anybody.’
‘It will at least teach _some_ person a serious lesson,’ observed Mrs
Joseph sternly.
‘O madam, the lesson has been learned already,’ answered the Major
bitterly.—‘But since you, Squire, are not satisfied that I am
sufficiently punished for my mistake by the loss of your friendship,
but also mean to take legal proceedings, I must summon a friend from
town who will convince you that the trouble did not originate with me.’
‘So be it, Major Dawkins; and as things stand, I shall expect your
visit to Todhurst to terminate to-morrow,’ said the Squire, getting the
inhospitable words out with much difficulty.
‘It would terminate this instant, were it not that I still desire to
serve you and your family. So much you will acknowledge to-morrow, and
then my presence will no longer disturb you.’
There was a degree of dignity in the Major’s retreat which impressed
everybody except the hot-headed lover, Maynard, who muttered between
his teeth: ‘If this were not my friend’s house, I would horsewhip the
little beggar.’ As he could not enjoy that luxury, he occupied his
talents in seeking a reconciliation with Nellie, and unluckily, but
naturally, besought the aid of Mrs John. His conversations with her
in the drawing-room and on the lawn again irritated the suspicious
husband, who, instead of speaking out frankly, endeavoured to hide the
bitter thoughts which were passing through his mind, and became more
abstracted and more disagreeable than ever.
Mrs Joseph perversely held to her opinion that the guest had
‘something’ to say which she ought to know.
‘But you don’t mean to say, Kitty,’ the Squire expostulated, ‘that if
I had any fault to find with you I should not speak it straight out to
yourself, instead of blabbing it to other folk? Past experience ought
to make you sure that when I am not pleased, you will hear about it
soon enough.’
‘I know that perfectly well—there is no lack of fault-finding on your
part to myself; and how am I to tell what you have been saying about me
to others?’ retorted Mrs Joseph, whose temper being once roused, as has
been stated, was not easily allayed.
‘Nonsense, Kitty—you don’t believe that I would speak about you to
outsiders.—Come, now; drop this humbug, for you know it is humbug; and,
’pon my honour, I think we have been too hard on poor Dawkins.’
‘Before deciding on that point, I shall wait to hear what this friend
he is summoning from London has to say to-morrow.’
‘I take his word for it, that there was a mistake.’
‘Then he should not make such a mistake, and having made it, ought to
suffer the consequences.’
‘But, my dear, don’t you see that he is taking the consequences?—and
infernally unpleasant ones they are. I tell you there is nothing in
it; and if he had only said it was all a joke, I should have been
satisfied.’
‘But he said it was not a joke, and told you that if you prosecuted
him, it would result in a grave family scandal. How can you answer
that?’
‘I can’t, and he wouldn’t; so we must wait for the person who will.’
There was a kind of armed truce declared in this way between the
husband and wife—she feeling guiltily conscious that she was somehow
making a mountain of a molehill; and he feeling perfectly sure of it.
* * * * *
The Major went straight to his room, resolved that he would hold no
intercourse with the family until Mrs John’s brother, Matt Willis,
arrived. Had there been a train that evening to town, he would have
taken it and brought his friend down; and if there had been a hotel
in the village, he would have left the house forthwith. But there was
no train and there was no hotel—not even a beershop, for the country
folk thereabout mostly brewed their own ale. There was, however, a post
and telegraph office in the village, and Hollis was despatched with a
message for Willis, entreating him, for his sister’s sake, to come down
by the first train on the following morning. That done, he endeavoured
to compose himself and to take a calm survey of his position. He had
upset everybody, and most of all himself, by his good-natured anxiety
to save others from the consequences of their own folly. The thing
ought to have resulted in a laugh and a shake-hands all round; but
instead of that, it threatened to become a serious affair for the
law-courts to deal with; and the Major had no means to enable him to
indulge in the luxury of a lawsuit.
What was he to do? Nothing but what he had determined upon—to get
Willis to speak out, since John Elliott would not. There was of course
the possibility that Willis would refuse, as it was his intense
repugnance to interfering with family squabbles which had prompted him
to call for the Major’s assistance as mediator between his sister and
her husband.
Major Dawkins felt indignant with John Elliott for shrinking from
speaking the few words which would have put everything right. But the
truth flashed upon him—perhaps the man was so blinded by his jealousy,
that he really did not understand what was required of him, when asked
to explain the position. Although the Major could only surmise that
this was the case, the surmise was correct; but the true reason why
John Elliott did not understand him was that he had no idea of his
conversation with Willis having been repeated to any one. If that were
so, the Major felt that it was his duty to prevent the threatened
publicity by every means in his power. Apart from his consideration
for the feelings of Mrs John and Nellie, there was his own plight to
be taken into account. Publicity would expose him to ridicule, if not
contempt, and would inevitably put an end to all hope of winning the
hand of Miss Euphemia Panton. He resolved to see the Squire the moment
dinner was over, and make another effort to get him to understand the
real state of the unfortunate business.
* * * * *
Servants have a special instinct for discovering the ill-luck of the
family they serve, and invariably they accept it in a distorted form.
Then they sympathise with the master and mistress, or rejoice in their
fallen state, according to the perquisites which have been allowed
them or withheld from them. Hollis having heard that his master was
in disgrace with the family they had come to visit, felt that his own
dignity was at stake; therefore, in the housekeeper’s room and in the
butler’s pantry he valiantly defended the honour of his chief. He was
a little crest-fallen when he found that his master was not to join
the family at dinner, for this circumstance appeared to confirm the
gossip of the servants’ hall that the Major had been guilty of some
grave offence, the nature of which was too dreadful to be mentioned.
Hollis was equal to the occasion, and by taking the position as one
of great injustice to his master, succeeded, by cautious suggestions
of forthcoming revelations, in impressing the housekeeper and butler
with the idea that they would reap a large reward in the future by
careful attention to the Major’s present needs. The diplomacy of Hollis
was used as much on his own account as on that of his master; for he
managed to secure command of the dishes which were most favoured
by the Major—and himself, as well as a sufficient supply of Clos de
Vougeot and Heidsieck.
The Major was scarcely sufficiently appreciative of the attentions of
his servant in catering for him so far as the eatables were concerned;
and he sadly disappointed Hollis by taking a larger share of the wine
than that gentleman had expected. For this loss, however, he contrived
to compensate himself when he got downstairs again. Major Dawkins was
too eager for the moment when he should be able to speak freely to the
Squire to find any delight in eating; and although he took the wine,
it was without any of the relish with which he usually partook of rare
vintages. When Hollis had cleared the table, he rose immediately,
disregarding his digestion, and paced the room. He knew that the dinner
would be a more lugubrious affair than the luncheon had been, and he
endeavoured to calculate exactly when it would be over.
The time having arrived, he opened his door, which was nearly opposite
that of the library. To the latter he advanced quickly, knowing that
the Squire frequently went thither after dinner to examine letters or
to take a nap. He heard some one moving in the room, and tapped at the
door. There was no answer. He tapped again, and still receiving no
answer, boldly turned the handle and entered. There was no one visible.
He was puzzled, for there had been unmistakable sounds of some one
moving about and also of the shutting of a drawer. The window which
opened on the terrace was slightly ajar, and possibly the Squire,
suspecting who was his visitor, had stepped out in order to avoid him.
That was both unfriendly and unjust.
The Major was angry, for he could not conceive any reason for being
avoided in this manner. He looked out: no one was visible on the
terrace. Then a sudden temptation seized him. He knew exactly in which
drawer the Squire had placed those abominable letters. They were his
own—why should he not take possession of them and destroy them? In
this way the whole miserable business would be ended. Of course, he
could not deny having written such letters as would be described, but
they would not be forthcoming; and if it should come to the worst, his
explanation of the circumstances under which they had been written
would be listened to with the more patience and consideration.
The temptation was too much for him. For the sake of the family as
well as for his own sake, those letters must be destroyed. He went to
the drawer, pulled it open, and there before him lay the letters. He
snatched them out and thrust them into the breast-pocket of his coat,
with the intention of burning them when he reached his own room; but at
that moment his wrists were tightly grasped and he heard the click of
handcuffs fastened upon them. He was helpless and speechless. He stood
staring at the smiling face of a broad-shouldered fellow who wore the
costume of a gamekeeper.
‘Got you at last,’ said this gentleman quite pleasantly. ‘You have
given me no end of trouble; but, there, I respect you all the more.
Only, you have been coming it rather strong, and I am surprised that
you didn’t take a rest, seeing that you’ve had the valuables out of
half-a-dozen mansions in the county.’
‘What do you mean?’ shouted the Major furiously.
‘Nothing particular,’ replied the complacent gentleman, ‘unless you
count it particular that I should want you to come along with me. I
am a constable, and I have been looking out for you for some weeks
past. So, you had better make no fuss about the matter, but come along
quietly. It’ll be all the better for yourself.’
‘You confounded fool!’ ejaculated the Major indignantly, ‘do you take
_me_ for a burglar? I am a guest in this house—I am Major Dawkins.’
‘Alias Captain Jack, alias ’Arry Smith.’
‘Call the family—they will identify me,’ the Major almost shrieked,
whilst he endeavoured to free himself from his handcuffs.
‘Oh, I’ll call the family,’ answered the detective, as he lifted up a
jemmy which was lying beside the Squire’s desk. ‘I suppose you don’t
know what this little tool means, and I suppose you don’t know anything
about this drawer which has been forced open with it?’
‘You scoundrel, to suspect me of such’——
‘There now; don’t say anything to commit yourself; I’ll call the
family.’
Thereupon, the detective rang the bell.
The summons was answered by Parker the butler, who was somewhat
astonished to find a stranger in the library with the Major. The
latter’s face—purple with rage—and wild gesticulations, with his
fettered hands, presented a spectacle so astounding that Parker could
scarcely believe his eyes rested on a guest of the house.
‘Tell your master to come here and release me from this ruffian, who
takes me—me, Major Dawkins—for a burglar!’
The detective smiled placidly as he addressed the butler: ‘Yes, if
you please, inform Mr Elliott that he is wanted here on particular
business.’
ENGLISH COUNSEL AND SOLICITORS.
BY A BARRISTER.
Some time ago, an agitation sprang up in favour of the amalgamation of
the two legal professions in England, and the conduct thereafter of
litigious business on lines more or less nearly approximating to the
American system. The movement emanated, no doubt, from the town branch
of the profession; for it is no secret that many solicitors are anxious
to distinguish themselves in court by pleading their clients’ causes,
in place of retaining counsel to do so for them. But, in the face of
more burning questions, the agitation gradually died away.
It now seems not unlikely to be revived, as it is certain that sooner
or later it must be. And an _ex cathedrâ_ utterance given by that
eminently practical judge, Mr Justice Stephen, a short time ago, will
tend to hasten the course of events in this matter. A case for trial
before that judge was duly called on, when it was found that the
plaintiff was unrepresented, his counsel being at the time engaged in
another court. The plaintiff being unwilling, or at least unprepared,
to conduct his own case—notwithstanding the growing tendency in favour
of personally conducted cases—the judge was asked to allow the case
to stand over, which he did, but not without giving a hint as to the
possibility of future ‘reform.’ ‘If,’ said his lordship, ‘such an
incident occurs often, it will become necessary to do away with the
separation between solicitors and barristers.’ Just so. This is the
way the question is regarded from the judicial point of view. When
the judge is put to inconvenience, he speaks out; and if he is at all
often put to inconvenience, he will act also. But inasmuch as, in most
actions, each party is represented by more than one counsel—certainly
no ‘distinguished’ or fashionable counsel will accept a brief without
a junior—such inconvenience to a judge is of comparatively unfrequent
occurrence; so that, although one of its members may occasionally
be found to _speak_ in favour of amalgamation, little or no active
assistance can be expected from the judicial body.
But how does the question affect other interests? Solicitors, as we
have hinted, are in favour of amalgamation. It can hardly do them
much harm, but must in many cases add to their professional incomes,
which is of course all that, as a body, they want. Barristers are more
opposed to it, but, we think, without much reason. A few, doubtless,
will suffer; but the state of the advocate’s profession as a whole can
hardly be worse than it is at present. There are barristers, it may
be said, who earn fifteen or twenty thousand pounds a year; but they
are not many—infinitely fewer in number than those who earn nothing at
all—and they are probably well above the reach of competition, partly
by reason of their known and exceptional ability, and partly because
they have been placed by fashion on a pedestal which is too firm to
crumble away, at least during their brief span of life. But the few who
make such incomes may be compared to the large landowners whom Mr Henry
George and his friends would rob to enrich (?) those who have no land.
If all the incomes made at the Bar were added together, and their sum
divided amongst all the barristers, each would have but a pittance, so
overstocked is the profession. Hence, regarding barristers as forming a
small community, and giving due consideration to the greatest happiness
of the greatest number principle, it is pretty obvious that the Bar has
really little to lose by the bringing about of amalgamation.
Now from the point of view of the public. It is clear that this largest
interest must benefit by amalgamation. It would promote economy—an
extremely great gain. It would practically mean the abolition of that
middle-man who is so obnoxious to economists, so hurtful to the proper
expression of delicate points, and so wasteful of time. It matters not
to the public, as long as it is placed in direct communication with
its counsel, whether that counsel be a solicitor or a barrister; but
it is of great and increasing importance to the vast body of litigants
that personal relations should be established between client and
advocate; and this is what must sooner or later come to pass. Other
advantages of the amalgamated system have been before urged here and
elsewhere; they need not be again specified in detail. Technically,
the probable effect of the system would be the immediate entering into
partnership of counsel and solicitors; which would mean nothing to the
general public except the nearer approach of counsel and the vastly
increased possibility of personal interview with him. Solicitors, in
fact, would for all practical purposes become barristers’ confidential
clerks; they would do all the work they do now for settlement by their
partner counsel; they would receive clients in chambers while their
partners were engaged in court, and in the event of an unusual press
of court-work, would conduct the minor cases through their trials.
The aggregate advantages of such a reform are so obvious, that minor
interests should not be considered in bringing it about; and we
are therefore inclined to express a hope that Mr Justice Stephen’s
criticism of the existing state of affairs may prove to be prophetic of
the near future.
LADY FREDERICK’S DIAMONDS.
I, Arnold Blake, have had a queer up-and-down, checkered sort of
life, and until I was nearing my fortieth year, was most persistently
down in my luck. First, it was in Mexico that I tried my fortune, and
failed. Then, tempted by an enthusiastic friend, I went to Genoa and
set up there in partnership with him as a merchant. The life was a very
healthy and happy one, but not what any one could call profitable,
from a pecuniary point of view—in fact, quite the reverse. After a
few years, finding it impossible, with both ends stretched to the
uttermost, to make them meet, we gave that up; and I moved on to Nice,
where I had two or three substantial friends. There, things took a turn
for the better, and I gradually formed a niche for myself, in time
becoming quite an authority in my own small circle. Then, acting on
good advice, I started a branch bank in connection with a well-known
one in London. This answered fairly well; I had just as much work as
I cared to do, was able to pay my expenses, and had even begun to lay
by a little hoard against the proverbial ‘rainy-day.’ Nice was a gay,
bright town to live in, and I constantly met old friends, and made many
pleasant new ones, who were passing through to the South, or spending
two or three months there, or at Monte Carlo, for the fascinating
pleasure of either losing their own money, or making a tidy little
fortune out of somebody else’s pocket.
One afternoon, I was sitting in my small counting-house, writing
for the English mail, when the door opened, and in came an old
acquaintance, Sir Frederick O’Connor, with a parcel in his hand. ‘How
d’ye do, Blake?’ said he cheerily. ‘I’ve come to you to get me out of
a difficulty. These are my wife’s jewels. Why she has brought them
with her, family diamonds and all, passes my understanding. I call it
insane! Fact is I don’t relish the idea of waking up some fine morning
to find my throat cut! I want to know if you will be so good as to keep
them in your safe while we are here. Whenever Lady O’Connor wishes to
dazzle her friends with them, I can easily come round and ask you for
what she wants.’