THE RISE OF HENRY LAVENDER

New Zealand Times, Volume LXXI, Issue 4330, 13 April 1901, Page 3 (Supplement)

THE RISE OF HENRY LAVENDER

'By Ann; 1 .- 0. Tibbits).

•It wn. gloomy night. Shadows were bottling down thickly, as they always did in T’o'intain Court i)i the autumn, iin/1 a chill wind drifted about the arches end a cress tho Court from th.o grey mvc;- beyond. Henry Lavender shivered a little as he S-queezed tliro;; gh trio iron railings and

':n iidc his way towards his chambers, 'f’ho old fa in s liar Temple looked dreary •arid iiuliorniiliko in the deepening dusk. It si,-u:;k cold, too, after the close air •of street, outside, and it was emptier than ii iial. for the Long Vacation was Tint quite over and it seemed breathlessly Mill after tho ruah of the traffic in the Strand.

v b' locked round end felt suddenly di pressed. '1 he white Fog that was ■m enini', up from tho Embankment .■norm'd u> he catching at his throat with "•o.d clinging lingers as he stared into it. U • e .'iiu d to he wrapping a cloak round h/in, a-; if it were trying to shut him nu f •••)•,u tho happiness, and wealth and fame welch ho had sworn should bo his. i'e stn-'/d for an instant with the same h-eei ,' I,( cling upon him that bo had once ■fed. n boy at school and then suddenly I r.rnctl. It was a childish feeling t‘i.a. >,■>• .■■■tgiit to sliake off—that ho must .»)..-.!;o r>lf. His future looked hopele.;- ' enough, but ho had Ethel Sinclair’s promise—.die. loved him, and if ho rose, iiho would be bis. If he . .sank—well, there was no one else to care except Ids mother ; and if ho did have to l give up his chambers at Christmas, ho could manage to keep the truth from her. It was ors«y to deceive a mother, and idle must never know that ho had failed! He would never toll her, and there was HO' one el to care. No one! A. tail, indistinct figure swung suddenly round tho gloomy buildings and cannoned into him. ■Hallo.' Sorry! I hope—why, Hal, old man, whoC in tho name of the hotpotato man at tho corner are you doing horo? Thought you weren’t coming back till to-morrow? Tlpon my soul, I believe yon wore composing an ode? Ton. look like it. You remind mo of the portrait of Cowpor with a wet towel round his head—at least, I’m sure it’s n, towel. And if you hadn't got a hard hat and a bag ” “Did;. Dick, no one else could talk such, nonsense. It’s jolly to soe vou again, f was just coming in dead tired! I feci a regular old man.”

Dick pursod his lips. “Conscience, my son,’' bo said solemnly, as they turned in and commenced walking up the dingy stairs. “Now what particular sin lias been hading you out? A good conscience is warranted to age every tiling except a. hardened infant. But whcrcover did you get a conscience from?” I fid laughed as he reached tho top and pushed open tho heavy wooden door of tho chambers.

■ Tho, 7 were small chambers at the top of tho building, and they had seen many a young man. wait with a sick heart day after day. month after month, perhaps for years for tho brief that never came. Hal walked into the room ho and Hick shared between, them, and pulling off his coat and hat, threw himself down into tho one easy chair that stood by tho lire. Dick turned with a flourish to a corner cupboard. ‘‘As luck would have it,” ho said gaily. “There’s everything to bo desired in that cupboard to-day. You may reckon yourself. a happy man that you didn’t come yesterday.” That meant, as Hal knew, that Dick had drawn his quarter’s allowance that day, and that it was vanishing with its usual rapidity. Hal looked up, and -then rose to Ids feet and looked at his face in the glass. < “How odd it is, Dick, that we should ho so much alike in face and yet so different in disposition,” he said. “Do you ever keep any money in your pocket? It’s awfully odd. We’re as alike as two peas, and'yet as different as we can be.” /

Dick looked over his shoulder, and the two faces that stared at each other wore, indeed, almost as alike as it is possible for two faces to be. They had the same dark hair, and the same dark ■eyes and straight nose. The only difference seomed to be in the mouth and in the complexion, for while Hal’s was clear and almost fair, Dick’s was darker and dissipated looking. It was this odd likeness that had attracted them to each other at Oxford and formed a sort of bond between two men almost entirely dissimilar in disposition. For while Hal Lavender was cautions and steady and plodding, Dick Jephson was his very opposite—careless, thoughtless, dissipated, brilliant—the cleverest man in his college and “unstable as water.’’

When they had first mot —when Hal Lavender had risked his life to save him from drowning—he had no intention of jroing to the Bar; but the thought of Hal and the friendship that sprung up between them, inspired him. “Then I’m bothered if I won’t go too,” Im had said. “Wo’ll race neck and nock, old man.”

It was net much racing that Dick did. 'While Hal plodded die idled away his time. Ho never studied. “Oh, I shall got through somehow,” he would say carelessly, and ho did. He got through with honours! And the old professors at the college shook their heads over liim, and said that if he only had ballast ho would bo the cleverest man in Europe.

Now for a, roar ho and Hal had shared chambers in Fountain Court, and were as far from obtaining briefs as ever., It was not such a serious thing to Dick ns it was to Hal. Dick had a regular income, Hal had only a few hundred pounds, which'- had had to pay his' college fees, and which had dwindled so rapidly that he had almost decided to give up the Bar if nothing turned np before Christmas.

He dropped back into his chair again presently. Dick turned up the lamp, and saw that his young face looked pale in the light. “You don’t look very fit,” he cried. ‘‘Anything wrong? Your mater all right ?” Hal nodded.

“Yes. but I was not thinking of her." he said. “Dick, while I was away, I —like a fool!—I spoke to a girl. I did not mean to. I ought not to have spoken, Heaven knows!” he added bitterly, “but I couldn’t help it. I asked her 1.0 be my wife!” Ho rose suddenly, with an odd, hoarse cry that was scarcely a laugh. “My wife, Dick, with fifty pounds in tho bank and no prospect of anything more. Good heavens, ( I think I must have been mad. But thank heaven, Dick, she loves me, and she’ll wait—a year or two. I’m'sure to bo something iu a year or two. I felt sure of myself to-night as I came in, and ' yet somehow the Temple and the fog oppressed mo. But wo can’t sink! Dick, you and I can't sink! Give mo yonr hand. Surely you’ll congratulate me? I spoke to her father—oh, I was an out-and-out fool while I was about it. But it wasn’t quite as bad as I expected. He’ll give her to me when I’m -getting

a thousand a year! Might a-s well say a million at once; but she—thank heaven, Dick, she doesn’t care for money. She’d come to me now if she could; and if my luck turns—if I get a brief—a chance — only a chance. —we shall bo openly engaged at Christmas!” Ho lifted bis head and looked across

at Dick. Dick had crossed the room suddenly, and was bending to put on his slippers. Hal could not see his face . “Don’t you congratulate me, Dick r” he asked. “She’s the dearest—the best little girl ” A queer change came suddenly over Dick. An odd, grey, desperate look flashed into his face. He lifted himself with a ringing laugh, and, turning abruptly, flung open the cupboard door and took out a bottle. “Oh, of course —hut stow it, Hal,” ho cried. “Yes, I congratulate you. Luck—yes, here’s luck. Let’s drink it at onco, confound it. Here you are. Drink it up quick before we forgot. Nothing like being in time. Tho best of luck, my boy—all tho luck—you’ve got all tho luckl You deservo it, old boy. Hero y’aro, and hooray!’’ Hal stared at him, and took tho glass ho bad filled half-hesitatingly. Dick clanged the glasses together and drank his dow n with a gulp. Hal lifted his to hi.s lips and started back.* “Good heavens, Dick, it’s brandy—and neat!” ho cried.

Dick laughed and dashed down his glass. “Well, you wouldn’t have me do things half and half, would you?’’ he asked. “On such an occasion as this it would ill become us to spare tho best brandy. But now let’s behave like rational, rising barristers and lay the supper!” He steadied again. His old natural manner returned as suddenly as it had gone, and ho took out the tablecloth with his old airy laugh. “I’ve become a grand housemaid since you’ve been away,” he remarked. “Do things beautifully now—glass here, knife there, spoon across tho top, and one by the suit cellar and the bent one for the jam. And nob having a plato handy, and being superior to trifles, wo place the tomatoes on the tablecloth! Also having broken, all tho glasses except two, tho company is requested to rise and wash when they require a change of drink.”

He deposited the last things upon the table with a flourish, while Hal went into tho next room to turn out his bag. Then ho strode round tho table to sqe how it looked, and stopped with his head on cue side, without a shadow on his careless face, to criticise. “There’s nothing like-neatness in setting a table,” he .shouted, “neatness and the floor.

Lying on tho rug, where it had fallen out of Hal’s overcoat pocket, was a photograph of a girl. Itch pickeci.it up with a hand that trembled as he held it. Ho looked at it, and his lips grew suddenly white. He put out one hand to tho back of a chair, and steadied himself while he looked into the girl’s face with dim eyes. “I say, Dick,” Hal called from tho next room. “You were never seriously in love, with a girl, were you?” “I?” Dick’s voice was hoarse. A vision of himself—thoughtlesa, careless, dissolute, idle—flashed up before him and vanished again. He turned suddenly and thrust the photograph back into Hal’s pocket. “In love? My dear boy, I leave tim e kind of things for frivolous persons like you. In love! I shall think I am directly if you don’t hurry up. I want my supper.” In love’ A fortnight later it seemed to Hal that his -luck was going 'to turn in earnest. He was served with hia first brief! Te stared at it, scarcely believing his eyes at first, then rushed to Dick’s rcom and burst in.

Dick was sitting over tho fire with a pipe. Ho had been out late the night before—it was very seldom, indeed, that ho was in early—but his eyes were heavy, and ho seemed to look more tired than usual this morning.

“Diok I say, what do you think?” Hal cried. “I’ve got a brief—a real brief. Look here!” _

He thrust the long blue paper before Dick’s eyes and peered over it. It was quite true and no mistake. His name was on the corner, the fee written in a scrawling hand above it. They opened it find read it through together, and to Hal’s mind there leapt eager visions from the stiff parchment, and with them aE came a girl’s fair fresh face that seemed of a sudden wondorfully close to him. It was only a junior brief, but still what possibilities it held I The leading barrister might be El—away—a thousand things, and then would be Hal’s chance. Dick held out his hand.

“Pray that he has a bilious attack,” be sdid. ‘‘Hal, old boy, I do wish you hick. Lot’s go through this together. Perhaps I can give you a hint or two. ‘Onlookers,’ you know, ‘.see most of the game.’ Let’s start on it at once. No time like the present. Here, pull up the table to tho fire, and light a pipe, and got down a few dictionaries and things. Oh, I’ll bet we’ll knock a hole in the idiot who’s going to oppose vs. Now then, old man, here goes: “ ‘ln the High Court of Justice, Chancery Division, Mr Justice Cbitty. Between John Smith, plaintiff, and Tom Robinson, defendant. Brief for the defendant.

“ l>n the 19th July, John Smith, cf 29. Cranborough Avenue, Wandsworth, went to tho office of Bernard Charles Graham, of Lincoln’s Inn, in connection with some legal claims. It was represented to tho plaintiff that the defendant was in imminent danger of being arrested for the amount at issue. The conversation,’ ” and so on.

They pored over it until midnight that night; they started it again next day. and many more midnights saw them bent over it. Dick grew as excited as Hal. He was full of enthusiasm and spared no pains for his friend. Hal did not knew that all tho time ho was repeating to himself, “For her sake—yes, yes. for her sake he shall have his chance.” He knew nothing of the stolen glance at tho photograph on the night of his return, and when he had shown it to him afterwards Dick had looked at it quite calmly, and Hal did not even suspect that it was a girl’s fao© which was the sweetest on earth to him, too; He had always been too unsteady to marry; too dissipated for any girl to believe that there was any good in him:; too careless and reckless even to consider it worth while falling in lave, and Hal would have laughed even at the idea of his fallnig in love at first sight. Tt would have seemed impossible. ; Yet Dick knew, that Ethel Sinclair, the girl who had promised to marry Hal, lived with her father ,in a quiet square in Bloomsbury. Ho knew, too, that if he wont past at a certain time of night he could see through the open blinds into a room whore her fair head was bent over the dining-table. He had only found it out of late. He Had only seen her half-a-dozen times when Hal cam© back from his vacation, and he had never been in love before in his life.

and never received a more cruel blow than the one ho had received when he picked up the fallen photograph. Afterwards, he had arrived at the conclusion that what happened to himsoh did not matter. He was only an idler, after all—a wastrel, a spendthrift—a fool, who sometimes drank more than was good for him; and if there was a girl in the whole wide world who would have anything to do with him he would he a brute to let her! So ho settled down and tackled the brief for Hal, and it was not long before ho had it at his fingers’ ends. Hal flower and steadier, was longer in mastering the points, and on the night before the case was coming on was still bent with ink-stained fingers over the blue sheets. He was more eager than over, for the news had come that the leading counsel could not be in court, and that he would have to take his place. He bent his head almost feverishly. Dick, from the ohair by the fire, every now and then sprang smart questions upon him. 'iNOt thought of that, old man?” he cried, when Hal looked puzzled. “Why, they’ll expect you to ask them that. And don’t forget what I told you this morning. You’ve got a big counsel opposing ypu, but’ that’ll floor him. I shall be in court to see the fun. And if you dare to make a mess of it, they’ll have to turn me out for contempt 1”

By this time Hal was certain of his ease, and sure of success. He looked up at last, flushed and eager. “I shall win,” he cried. “I feel 1 shall win. And then—then ” At that moment a double knock sounded at the door. Hal started a little and then got up to answer it. A telegraph boy stood outside, and Hal took the yellow envelope carelessly in his fingers and held it to the light. It was for him, and he opened it. As he unfolded the pink sheet a sudden oold feeling swept over him. He stared at the plain black handwriting and his head reeled suddenly. “Como at once. Your mother seriously ill.” The room swept past him and i.e scarcely seemed to Know that Dick had risen and read tho telegram until he suddenly found that ho was patting him on the back.

“You’ll have to go. Poor old man! it’s a beastly shame with that case on to-morrow. Here, sit down! It may not be so bad, after all, and perhaps—why, look up, old man! I may be able to do something. I'll see to it, and put it off if I can. You could rush off tonight and, if things are not so bad, rush back again to-morrow. Go and see, old man. Here, I’ll pack ,your bag.” Hal turned unsteadily. His one chance—the great chance he had been waiting for so long was slipping out of his fingers—his one chance!’ On, if his mother only knew! And yet He roused himself suddenly as he remembered all that his mother had once meant to him, all she had done for him. He had only one mother after all, and life held more than one chance. His mother must come first.

Ha came back to London towards the end of a dull November afternoon. He had only been two days away, but it seemed like weeks. In those two days his mother had hovered between life and death, and then suddenly rallied. Now he was back in tho old familiar London streets, tired, heartsick, disappointed. He walked down the Strand towards the Temple. He scarcely knew why he had come, except that it was intolerable to be doing nothing in the country, and his mother did not need him. He could go back to her. The case would be over now, but he wanted to know for certain. There was a chance, a faint chance, that it might have been postponed, and though he knew it was foolish, ho told himself it was possible. He hesitated at Essex street. Should he go to the Courts or to see if Dick were in ? He decided on the latter, ana plunged down the little incline and into the alley leading to Fountain Court. As he turned the comer he saw a barrister before him. He was walking limply with his head down, and he seemed almost as miserable as Hal himself. Hal foEowed in his steps through the iron railings and across tho court, and then to his surprise he saw him turn into the block of buildings in which he and Dick had chambers. Ho mounted the stairs and looked up as he wont. Something famEiar in the bent head struck him suddenly, touroly it could not be Dick? He hurried his steps and reached his chambers just as the door slammed to. He unlocked it, and pushed his way through to Dick’s room. It was Dick. He had stumbled in anil dropped heavily into a chair, and was leaning forward with his face in his hands. Hal stared, then ran forward. “Diok, Dick, what in the world’s the matter?” ho cried. Dick started up with a confused look on his face, and then began hurriedly tearing off his wig and gown. “Here, hero,” he cried. “Got them on, quick. Somebody’ll bo here iu a minute. She was in Court. I saw her. I think i saw' nobody else. Anyhow, 1 Won the case for you. Don’t stand gaping there, man. Here, put yonr arm in. Oh, don’t be an idiot, Hal. They’ll be here in a minute, and I must get away—a—an appointment. I can’t stop. Dor for goodness sake be quick!” Hal caught his arm. “What on earth has happened?" he cried. Dick looked at him. oddly for a moment. “Can’t you guess, old man?” he said. “Can’t you see? Look at me in th>s wig and see if you know the difference between us, and then guess what I did. I took your place in Court and won the case for you—it’s over to-day aim no one knew me—and—and—she was there, Hal, and she thinks it was you, and she must never know any different! You must swear you’ll never let her know.” Hal fell back. “Diok Dick you Drick!” be cried hoarsely, “but I—l oau’t. I won’t. Dick, upon my word I couldn’t be such

Dick held him in a tight grasp

“Look here, Hal. You saved my life once—it wasn’t much of a thing to save perhaps, but you did it. Let me do this for'you. I shall never bo a barrister. I shall never again put on wig and gown, and something has happened which makes me think it will be best for me to go right away. I—l—Hal, I’m in danger of- falling in love with a woman- Who belongs to another .man. I mustn’t do it. Hal, if you ever cared a little, bit about me, let me have my own way. \ Hark! Did you hear a knock? That’s the girl you love and her father- They were there watching. Thoy.’ve. come to congratulate you. ■They'll never know —never know if you don’t tell them. Hal, go and open the door! Hal, I tell you again it’s the greatest wish of my life to keep all this a secret —it’s most serious for me. I can’t explain now, but you’ll see when I do, and—hark! Hal, go and open tho door P’

~ He 'pushed him^out'resisfcingly' into tho passage and turned the key upon him, and Hal, with an odd feeling in his throat, opened the outside door. Ethel an dher father were there Tho old man was beaming; Ethel’s face was bright and happy. She did not wait for her father’s permission, but threw her arms round Hal’s neck. “Oh, Hal, Hal, how splendid you were!” she cried. Mr Sinclair followed her m and held out his haud. , “My boy,” he said, “the whole Court s ringing with praise. You’ve made your mark to-day, and—and I retract what I said about you. I beg your paraon. You’re not a fool, and it sooms to me that in a reasonable* time you J ll bo able to earn your thousand a year, and to, as Ethel’s willing ’’ Hal scarcely heard. He saw only Ethel, who seemed to guess by instinct which was his room, and pushed him into it He looked round half-stupidly. He still scarcely realised what had happened, and then Ethel gave a little cry. The table was still scattered with tho notes he had made days ago, and she ran and bent over them with shining eyes. She lifted her head suddenly. “Oh, Hal, I was never so happy m my life,” She cried. , Hal drew her to aim in silence, with a strange feeling upon him, as if he Lad been guilty of some underhand thing wondering what she would say when lie told her the truth. Dick, slipping quietly out of the outside door, heard her as he went.

Some yeans have passed now, and Henry Lavender makes more than a thousand a year. Ho Inis never gone back. He is one of the cleverest barristers at the Bar arid Ethel, his wife, is one of the prettiest women in Society. Perhaps behind the lives of most ot the great lawyers would be found romantic stories of their first briefs, but none more romantic than Henry Lavender s. What became of Dick Jephson no one knew for years. After the end of the case, after he had slipped out in the dusk leaving a passionate request that Hal would keep his secret, no ono saw anything of him, and Hal advertised m vain. , , But a short time ago ho turned lip quite a different Lick Jephson, a sober, steady, open browed Dick Jephson wita an American wife. He looked at Ethel as he shook hands with her, and somehow he found he had forgotten oven what, she was like. He turned to Hal and he found that the likeness between them had almost entirely disappeared. Hal clasped his hand with delight and relief at seeing him again. It was a relief to know that ho had not sunk—that he, too, was a successful man. loday Dick is making a name for mmselt in America, and lie can trace it ail bacti to the day when ho walked out of the Temple alone, to commence a new me in a new world; and he never regretted it.—“ Pearson’s Weekly."