FICTION.

Lyttelton Times, Volume LXXV, Issue 9427, 30 May 1891, Page 3

FICTION.

THE Q.C.’S STORY. (Wo rid.) I am not in tho least inclined to believe the bast of everybody. As it was observed from the Bench not so very long ago, the circumstances of my profession do not tend to the fostering of very high illusions, and, on the whole, it is better policy to ascribe all the vices to our fellow-beings until thsir death, when it is safe to praise them: It has happened to me sometimes that I have been under the necessity of defending a client whose innocence of the charge preferred against him baa not seemed very clear; bat never have I been called upon to act so contmiiy to tny convictions as in the esae of “ Atberley v. Atherley and Boisragon,” when I waa retained aa counsel for the prosecution. Lord Atherley I had long known by reputation as a selfish roue , and the closer acquaintance into which this business forced me had not the effect of raising him in xny estimation. He had a shifty look in Ins light eyes, and a very disagreeable expression about his fiat lips, which denoted cruelty and sensuality—two qualities which so often go together. His conversation was tinged by that French school of thought which cannot fail to be obnoxious to the more healthy-minded Britisher. When he* spoke of hia wife, it was with a determined malice I had naturally supposed to be justified to some extent; but now that I saw them confronted with each other, I had no hesitation in deciding who was sinned against and who the sinner. The Earl, for all his six feet of height and dignity of carriage, looked like a whipped cur when once his wife’s gaze fell reproachfully upon him; and when she, at her own request, stood up and declared her innocence in a few words that for the moment impressed the whole Court with a sense of cheir truth, I could only think of Marie Antoinette in the tumbril, with the ribald crowd of Paris thronging round to mock her misery, composed, and a queen still, although uncrowned. While still a strikingly beautiful woman. Lady Atherley was no longer very young. She might have been thirty-five, but the full lines of her well-formed figure inclined one to credit her with ten years more. Her plain stuff gown had no relief but a white kerchief knotted loosely round her throat, which, combined with her dark hair, just lightly silvered on the temples, and thrown back over a cushion, may have suggested the French Queen to my mind —and no Royalist in the time of the Revolution could have been more utterly friendless than she. Secure in her own unassailable position, she had never attempted to conciliate society nor please it, and, naturally very proud and self-contained, it is questionable whether even now, in tho hour of her degradation, she regretted the line of conduct she had taken.

lu tho gallery were women who, a few months ago, would have been flattered by an invitation to her house, but who now joined in her condemnation, smiling meaningly behind their muffs when young Boisragon of the Guards was called into the witaesc-box. Such a nice-looking lad, with honest blue eyes and rough fair hair of rather more than regulation length. But his visible reluctance to say anything that could be prejudicial to Lady Atherley, or even hurt her pride, waa regarded as fresh evidence against her. No doubt he loved her with that unreasoning, yet not altogether inexplicable passion which a young man sometimes conceives for a woman old enough to he his mother; but so far as such feelings can be guiltless, I would have guaranteed that his merited no censure. The reverence of his attitude towards Lady Atherley was apparent,. yet did not seem to touch her in the least. When she glanced his way, it was with cold distaste, as though blaming him for the indignity of her present position. But warmly as my sympathies were enlisted in the cause that was not mine, I had a duty to perform, and must not shirk it.. Soon I saw that I was destined to succeed against my will. My moderation only helped to injure Lady Atherley, being taken as a sign that 1 had no doubt as to the issue of the trial; aud, indeed, it seemed impossible that she could break through the network of circumstantial evidence which enclosed her. Every fact was dead against her. No woman whose ignorance of evil was not phenomenal in its nature would have done even one of the imprudent things alleged by tho prosecution and not denied. Seldom do I remain in Court after my own part in a case is finished, but in this instance I stayed on, wondering if, in spite of all that had apparently been proved, twelve men, with presumably some knowledge of human nature, could read ignoble guilt in Lady Atherley’s refined features, and associate shame with her proud bearing. When the Jury re-entered, after some forty minutes’ absence, and gave the verdict against her, there came over me a feeling that it would be an outrage to look upon her face, and I beat a hasty retreat, indignant that once again in my experience might had prevailed against the right. Outside, two or three matters combined to detain me, and I waa still standing in the passage when Lady Atherley came by alone. She stopped at sight of me. I thought afterwards she had remembered me as connected with the trial, but for the moment forgotten the adverse part I had taken. She looked dazed aud helpless, even pathetically so, considering her magnificent physique. •• What does it mean? Is the case absolutely decided ? la there no appeal ?” she asked me, in an agitated whisper; and, while mindful of the fact that I was not the person she should have consulted on the matter, I felt constrained to say, with formal courtesy, that, nothing intervening, the decree nisi would be pronounced in sis months’ time.

“ And my husband will be free to marry another woman ?” hoarsely. I bowed assent. Words seemed so brutal; and, after all, what need was there of words ? She could not well be unaware of the conditions of divorce. It was only their application to herself that had bewildered and nearly maddened her. Her face was drawn in agony, and presently from her lips there burst a tortured cry. “ And I ? What shall I be thou ?” “ You—can take any name you choose,” awkwardly. “And have the right to none? O my God ! to tbiak that it should be so! That I could stand up in Court, before all those people, to declare the truth, and not be credited! What a terrible use I have made of my lire if now, at middle age, not one man nor woman —no one. — who has known mo will come forward to say, e J will not believe this woman guilty of such a heinous sin. ’!” The hoarseness had worn off with speech. Her voice rang out like a challenge, which, lost to all sense of precedent or rule, I immediately took up. “Do not think that. Lady Atherley, I beg. There must be very many who believe m you, since even I, a stranger, whoso business it was to prove your husband’s case, never thought you guilty.” “ Yet you spoke against me.” “ I was engaged to do so.” She looked at me, surprise struggling with contempt in her eloquent dark eyes. “ I am very sorry for you.” she said presently, in altered tones, that at once threw a new and not very pleasant light upon my conduct; and then, drawing her long cloak around her with a little shiver, she passed ou. I don’t, know that I actually regretted the ill-advised candour into which sympathy bad forced me. If any co’d.comfort could be derived from tho, fact that a hard-he aled old lawyer had for once forgotten legal prudence in his anger at a gross-injustice, I did not grudge it ,her;, and I -forgave her thatinvoluntarily

expressive glance, though it was long before the bitterness of it passed from my recollection. My own feelings would, have prompted mo to decline further responsibility in the case, only that I hoped to be of use to Lady by outwardly maintaining smooth relations with her husband —a hope that was, however, doomed to disappointment. When a passionate appeal for the possession of her child came into my hands a few days later, I solicited a personal interview with the Earl to urge her claims, but saw at onco that nothing would alter his decision. It was like heating one’s brains against a rock. Hia features remained impassive during all my representations, until, in desperation, I placed hia wife’s letter before him. Then it darkened wrathfully. “ She is all the world to me. I will not live without her,” wrote the frenzied woman. “ Lord Atberley has no affection for her. She cannot inherit any of the property, nor will she need any of his money if she comes to me. My own fortune is sufficient for us both.”

Lord Atberley must have read at least this much of the letter before he refolded it with deliberate care and returned it to me.

“ Wo will not discuss the matter further,” ho remarked, coldly. “ The law does notconsider it desirable'that a child— especially a female child —should he exposed to the danger of contamination by a guilty mother, and I see no reason why I should be more lenient than the law.” Those words on which he had laid a a sneering emphasis, conveyed to me the impression that Lady Atberley’a unpardonable ofieneo was that she had not borne him an heir to his great estates. The knowledge that be had irretrievably ruined her life only added bitterness to his rancour; it would never soften hia heart towards her. She was nothing to him now but an uncomfortable recollection, and bo to be thrust aside, if possible outlived. For the time the matter dropped, and I only heard at intervals of Lady Atberley, A friend who knew her well, and saw that I was interested in her, wrote me a long account of how, when she weut down to their country homo to collect a few things that were indisputably her own, there was a populsr demonstration, and the tenants of the estate turned out to do her honour. The horses were taken out of her carriage, and she was drawn to the castle in triumph, amid cheers and open expressions of sympathy with herself, mingled with muttered imprecations on the Earl. My informant added that, during the two miles’ procession. Lady Atberley, quite overcome by the display of feeling in her favour E&t rigidly upright, with nervously clasped hands, the tears streaming down her face, though once or twice she tried to smile. All this must have been a serious strain upon her health. At the end of six months, when the decision of the Court was confirmed, j had an illness which threatened her life, but in doubtful mercy spared it. From another source I heard that, all his letters being unanswered, probably unread, young Boisragon went to sea_ her, and implored her not once, but many times, to be his wife; so that when I read in the Gazette of his exchange into a regiment abroad, I knew that he had realised at last the futility of perseverance. After this for a long time I heard no more. It must have been a year later that I received an invitation to attend the wedding of the Earl of Atberley, and, everything returning with vivid distinctness to my mind, an irresistible impulse urged me to see another act In this drama of real life. I had only been a few momenta in the church before I discerned a tragic element quite unsuspected by the gay assemblage, which rustled up the aisle and chatted through the interval of waiting. There, in the gallery to my left, the centre of a less distinguished crowd, sat the divorced Lady Atherley . No one else was conscious of her presence. It was only by chance I recognised her, for the last year had worked cruel ravages upon her beauty. Beauty it was still, but of a type that, like Medusa’s, might turn the beholder into atone. Her face would have been colourless but for the bluish tint shadowing her eyes and mouth, and the dark eyes, that were strangely void of light. Her hair was much whiter now, and gave a waxen hue to her complexion. She was evidently ill. How ill I did not guess, or, regardless of les convenances, I would have left my place and led her forcibly away from a too, groat trial of her strength. I said no one but myself knew that she was there; I must make one exception: the Earl of Atherley knew. When he entered, he rapidly swept the church with a glance, and I saw his face change as his guilty fears were confirmed by the sight of her he had injured. She was a sufficiently conspicuous object now, for the whole gallery had risen to witness the entrance of the bride. Lady Atherley alone was seated, her body bent forward, and her chin resting on the dark oak railing. It added to the gruesomeness of the situation that only her distraught, horror-stricken face was seen surrounded by so many standing figures. Life, movement, and human interest excited in every person present, while on the forehead of this woman was written—living death. My eyes wandered to the bride. She was pretty in a happy, mindless fashion, and apparently well satisfied with the future she had secured. She did not interest me, and I looked further, to sea a tiny train-bearer some four or five years old, flashed and smiling with an air of shy importance as she trotted past. In an instant it flashed across my mind: this was the daughter of Lord Atherley and hia divorced wife. How would the mother bear it ? I wondered, but dared not raise my eyes to see. More still remained for her to endure. The same service which had once been read for her would be read again, even to the bittermockery of that sentence which surely now has lost its meaning: “Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.” The bridal pair moved nearer to the altar. The exhortation, “ I require and charge you both * * * if either of you know any .impediment,” was pronounced without eliciting response, and no protest escaped the pale sad woman, whose position and personality were thus publicly denied. Nothing unusual transpired until Lord Atherley deliberately spoke the words “I will;” then a low shuddering moan echoed through the church which must Lave told to one other as it told me, the truth. There was renunciation in it—renunciation of love, faith, honour —and of life.

When I looked up, the white set face had disappeared from view, and a crowd had collected where it was before. It was only a momentary interruption to the marriage service. Few, if any, besides the Earl and myself, were certain to what it had been due. Some one near me whispered, “ A woman fainted but I knew better. It was death I had seen in her face only a minute or so ago, and, if any doubt were in my mind, the continued disturbance in the left gallery would have destroyed it. A mere fainting fit would not have distracted the attention of so many from such a fasionable wedding. In the body of the church all went on as before. The service ended, there was an adjournment to the vestry, and presently the bride and bridegroom came out together he, pallid and consciencestricken, but looking neither to the right nor to the left; she, as palpably uneasy. There was no happy confidence in her expression; and, though she was trembling violently, she did not cling closer to her husband "for support, and yet did not shrink away. It was evident she had not taken this step blindfold, but knew all and had weighed all, believing the balance to be in her own favour; therefore I wasted no pity on her case. Looking upwards once again, I saw that the galleries were clearing, and where there had been a crowd were only empty benches and blank space. Was the dead woman lying there alone? or were they carrying her to a,physician or to some hospital, in the , vain . hope' that science still'might save her ? A sudden horrible yet unformed .fe&r caused mo to escape through the vestry and hurry to the.front, arriving just in time to see a stretcher borne by two men on the very threshold of the door that led np to the gallery. ‘‘Stand back I”. I. shouted, wildly,.. and.

there was an evident .attempt to carry out my oraei 1 ; but the surging crowd behind pushed on, and after a momentary resistance, an uncertain swaying to and fro, the body of tho late Lady Atherley was borne out into the porch at the same moment he that emerged with his new wi£a on his arm.

So for a few. paces, while everybody; stared aghast and’powerless to interfere, 1 the living and the dead’' moved on' together, while tho little child, unoon-i scions of her loss, came on with her soft! load of gleaming silk, and was still smiling. , , '