Copyright Story. Cupid’s Wig and Gown.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXII, Issue II, 9 January 1904, Page 11

Copyright Story. Cupid’s Wig and Gown.

By

TOM GALLON.

Author of “ Tatterley,” Etc.

Unless you are absolutely certain as to the result, do not approach a lady on the question most vital to your future before dinner; it is a mistake, and may place-you in that position—should she refuse you—which will make you wish that the dinner was never to happen at all. That was exactly what John Mediow did; and you shall hear tho result. Not that one must imagine) for a moment that John was certain as to the result; in the first place, his conceit of himself, as our Scotch neighbours would say, was not sufficiently great —and, in the second place, it seemed such a daring thing for any man to approach such a dainty little lady as Miss Phyllis Holt. But when one bears in mind the fact that, for many months, John Medlow had been making up his mind to speak on that vital matter, and had never yet found courage; and when one remembers also the fact that man is but mortal, and woman entrancing; he must bo forgiven. It was all the fault of Miss Taplin. Miss Taplin was most anxious, for many reasons, that John Medlow should marry Phyillis; it would be a good match, and John was just one of those steady plodding sort of fellows, who could be trusted to have his slippered feet on the fender for something more than tluee hundred evenings in the year. Phyllis being what Miss Taplin termed "a little flighty,” all this was just as it should be. More than that, John was rich; so was Phyllis—very rich indeed. Miss Taplin, being a worldly woman, saw in this again the fitness of things; and thus it was that John Medlow went to dinner.

He had been to dinner on a great many other occasions; and the very servants, with an eye to romantic things, were careful of his hat and coat, and knew just into which room to usher him. Going steadily and somewhat heavily across the hall on this particular occasion, John Medlow made up hi* mind that he would postpone the mat-er for another evening! ho really felt too nervous, and too little sure of himself, to speak then. That, of course, was all very well from John’s point of view; when Phyllis presently flitted into the room, John changed his mind. For if ever that particularly dainty little lady had looked entrancing, she looked entrancing that night; if ever she had appeared small and frail, and in need of some strong man's arms about her, she appeared so then. The very crown and summit of her bright hair reached not quite to John Medlow's white tie; he felt bigger than ever, as he looked down at her. She, for her part, was as cool and calm as anyone well could be, and apparently utterly oblivious of the storm raging within John Medlow’s breast.

Then, before John quite knew what was happening, he was holding a hand which seemed absurdly small, and was blurting out, in a torrent of tempestuous words, all that had been hidden in his heart so long. He was going to do this, and ho was going to do that; there was no one in all the wide world like her, and the heaven front whence she had sprung had resolutely decided never again to make anybody on the tame model; it simply couldn’t be done. More than that, he was going to be very good to her; and he didn’t mind how long ho waited, if she required time in Which to make up her mind. Sho said "No.” Not exactly In that word, perhaps; sho gilded Hie bitter bill a little; said that he was her best iriend (oh —the dear old abominable Word, that has been used so often, and Under such sad circumstances!): and that there never would bo anyone like Aim, in that sense; but she couldn’t Marry him. Bho was a little sorry, terhaps, that he had broken down that «ne complete confidence there had been

between them; wouldn’t it be better if he made an excuse, and went away, and forgot all about it T A little helplessly, he reminded her that he was to stay to dinner; and that Miss Taplin might say unkind and undeserved things. “And I suppose you’ll sit opposite to me—and look glum and horrid—and make me miserable?” she said, tapping her foot a little petulantly on the. floor. “I’m sorry you should think that,” he said. “I’ve no right to ask it, I know—but I suppose there’s someone else—someone who fills your heart more than your —your friend could do—eh?” “Yes. You have a right to ask it, and I don’t mind telling you.” “Does he know his luck?” asked John. “No —-and he never will,” she replied. “I see; he doesn’t appreciate you. Who is the brute?” “He’s not a brute, and you’ve no right to say so. He’s a mistaken, silly fellow —and he doesn’t understand; but I shall never love anyone else.” “Can’t I—do anything?” Then, as she looked at him in perplexity, he went on blunderingly, “You see—l’m so very fond of you, that if I could — could put things straight a bit, you know—l’d be glad- Do. I know him?” She seemed to nod her head slowly, as Miss Taplin bustled into the roomMiss Taplin was a little' woman of pinched aspect—very bright and eager, and occasionally very much in the way. She welcomed John Medlow effusively; and was. quite certain, in her own mind, that that gentleman had at last brought things to a crisis, and that her dearest wishes had been realised. So they went in to dinner; Miss Taplin to take the head of the table, and Phyllis to face John Medlow. Miss Taplin had been quite convinced, in her own mind, that the young people had settled things to their own satisfaction; she was somewhat surprised, therefore, to find that they had nothing to say to each other; she determined to encourage them. She plunged, with much giggling and many blushes, into a highly ingenious account of a flirtation she had had—far away back in the ages—with a gentleman of property in Derby County ; she was proceeding to enlarge upon the way in which he had first addressed her, and the feelings he had inspired within her, when John Medlow, who had been watching Phyllis for some time, and trying to make up his mind as to a certain theory that had occurred to him, broke in with a careless remark. “By the way, Miss Holt,” —and Miss Taplin glanced up quickly, in some wonderment ’ that there should be no more familiar form of address—“l saw a friend of yours to-day.” “Of mine?” She looked up at him quickly. “Yes—a very old friend,” said John, twisting his wine glass round and round, and looking at it as he spoke— l “Gilbert Kenshaw.” He looked up just In time to see ft bright wave of colour spread over her face and neck; she did not meet his eyes, and he sighed to think that his shot had gone home, and that he knew the man. “Indeed?” she said, when she had mastered her voice. “Is—is Gilbert well?” “I don’t like to hear you speak even of friends by their Christian names, my love,” said Miss Taplin, a little sharply. “It was all very well, of course, when you were in a different position—but now—” “Now —I am entitled to do as I like,” broke in Phyllis, flashing a glance at her. "Gilbert Kenshaw is a very old friend of mine—and, although his profession does keep him so very much occupied, that doesn’t make any difference.” * "Gilbert is quits well—at least—what Mu I talking ateutt I’m Mny, to say

that he has knocked up completely; I called on him, just to make inquiries, you know. Been working too hard, I expect; it's rather hard lines, having to grind for guineas '* Miss Holt rose abruptly from the table. “This room is ridiculously hot,” she said; •‘perhaps you’ll entertain Mr Medlow, Auntie, while he finishes his dessert.” Some ten minutes later, John Medlow was seated beside Phyllis Holt, talking quietly to her; Miss Ta plin, still with that amazing idea in her mind, had absented herself, on some pretext or other. “Why didn’t you tell me his name?— it would have saved a great deal of trouble,” he said. “Is he really ill?” she asked, in a low voice, and without looking at him. "Pretty bad. Something seems to have worried him; he almost gives one the idea that he has given up hope—• doesn't seem to care, you know.” She was silent for a moment or two, and then, turning suddenly toward him, she spoke. John Medlow noticed that her face had again that curious flush upon it. Something in the kindly glance of the man, however, must have inspired her with confidence; for she spoke as she had never spoken to a man in all her life before. “John—it’s deplorable, I know; but I’m desperately fond of him. It's an atrocious thing to say to you—after what you’ve said to me; but I’d rather tell you than anyone else. You don’t mind?” “Oh, yes —I mind a great deal,” said John. "And yet I like it; because it shows by what a very little I have missed you. Go on—tell me about it.” So she told him about it; she reminded him of what he knew already: that this Gilbert Kenshaw had been her greatest friend, when he was little more than a school boy, and she a girl in short frocks; that they had both been equally poor, and equally friendless. She told him what he had not known: that she and Gilbert Kenshaw had made a boy-and-girl vow to be faithful to each other; and that the man had broken it. “Ever since I came into all this ridiculous money, he has studiously avoided me. He calls me ‘Miss Holt’; he buries himself in those musty chambers of his, and never lets anyone see him.” “Why don’t you go and rout him out —and-tell him his luck? Take him by the shoulders and shake it into him.” “John—you’re perfectly horrid! Don’t you understand that I would rather die

than let him think for a moment—” “I’m sorry; I never thought oi that," ■aid John Medlow. "Only, you see, th* ease is rather sericus; Gilbert has been burning the midnight oil to such an extent—probably with the vague hope of making a fortune in about a couple of days, aiifficient to lay besides yours—that he is literally off his head; 1 don’t mind telling you that I’ve been with him nearly all day (I don’t in the least see what you’ve got to squeeze :uy hand about) —and he's really very ill. More than that, he's losing the chance of a lifetime.” “What do you mean?” she asked. “Oh—he’ll get over the illness with rest and care; but the other business he won’t. • 1 suppose you know what .1 brief is; well, he's had his first one sent to him, by rather an important firm of solicitors, too. It promises to be a big case; and it meant a bigger chance that I’ve had in all my life. I don’t need it of course, because I’m rich enough already; but I’ve sat in those Courts, day in and day out, in wig and gown, and scarcely ever spoken a dozen words on behalf of anybody. And hero is a lucky youngster, with a fat brief, and a chance to take a big leap up the ladder; and he can’t do it. He may wait five years for another.” “And what will happen if ho doesn't apnear?” she asked. “Oh, they’ll simply mention that he is unable to appear; and in all probability some smart junior will snap it up—and snap up the others to follow. They won’t give it to me; I’m too big a fool. And they won’t trouble Mr Gilbert Kenshaw again, fora long time to come.” For the whole of one long night Miss Phyllis Holt lay awake. She was a girl of rare singleness of purpose; she saw only the sick man, and saw one of the chances of life slipping away from him. The possession of money had taught her its power; the possession of beauty had taught her that she held a greater power still. More than that, she wanted to do something which should raise her above all other women in the eyes of Gilbert Kenshaw; and she thought she saw the way. “Oh, if only I can show him that I want to help him—that I’d risk anything for hie sake!” she said to herself. as she dressed hwriedly that morning. “There ought to be some wny; I might even manage to speak nicely to a Judge or two, and put things right. One

thing is certain; I can’t stop here; I must go down and aee him?*

It happened that it was one of the foggiest mornings ever known in a late autumn; it was absolutely impossible for anyone to ,see across the street, even that aristocratic street wherein Miss Phyllis Holt lived. When, in course of time, she managed to find a hansom cab, the man suggested, when she gave him the address, that he would do his best, but added, cheerfully—“ Don’t you blame me, Miss, if we bumps into anytllink!”

The Temple is an awkward place to find one’s way about in; there are so many courts and alleys, and little passages and staircases; on a foggy morning (and the fog was thicker than ever down in Fleet-street) it is still more difficult. But at last Phyllis found her way up that long flight of stairs which led to the chambers of ”r Gilbert

Kenshaw; saw the name in Le paint dimly on the door; and knocked. For Mr Kenshaw was so poor that, ns a matter of fact, he lived in the chambers Which he was supposed to use solely for professional purposes. A boy opened the door, and caine out into the fog on the stair ease to look at her. After some small delay, he asked her to come in; and she followed

him into the room, which was half sit-ting-room and half office, and looked about her. One gas jet was burning, and, conspicuous on a desk among a pile of books and papers, was a ghastlylooking wig-block, with a very newlooking barrister’s wig upon it; flung over tl-.c back of a chair was the black Stuff gown which belonged to it. “Is air Kenshaw in?” asked Phyllis Of the boy. “Ain’t never bin out this fortnight,” replied the boy, who was of a freckled aspect with very sharp features. “If you arsk me, ’e won’t never go out no Wore; simply wearin’ ’isself away, ’e is. An’ ’im doo at ten-thirty sharp in Smith V. ’Lcetric Syndicate. Jist my luck; If ’e’d only nipped in all right, the uwer boys .wouldn’t ’ave ’ad no charnce to chip me about ’ini, an’ tell me I wasn’t .earnin’ me wages. Jist my luck!” “Where is Mr Kenshaw?” “In bed,” retorted the boy. “Ole Tails an’ Brooms says ’e’s bin ravin’ an’ shoutin’ about the case, an’ about some gel ” “Boy, answer me carefully and quickly, and I’ll give you more money than you could earn in a week,” said Phyllis, with a little gasp. “When Mr Kenshaw goes into Court, what does he have to do ?” “Sit down and read the paper,” replied the boy. “I carries the b'oo bag, an’ rushes up to ’im constant, an’ whispers in ’is ear, as though all Chancery Lane was ’avin’ its traffic stopped on ’is account—same as them doctors they fetches out o’ church in a ’urry to read the tombstones, to remind ’em o’ their patien 1 s.” “But other gentlemen, who have to talk to the Judges.—what do they do?” “They stands up—summink like this ’ere”—the boy threw himself into an attitude, with one hand thrust into the breast of his small jacket—“an’ they cays—‘May it please yer ludship—l appears for So-and-so—an’ the uwer side dunno w’ere they are*or summink to that effect.”

“Do you know anything about this case?” asked Phyllis. “It is now fifteen minutes past ten o’clock, and Mr Renshaw should be in Court at the halfhour.”

“Well, if ’e went in as ’e is now—wot a rush there’d be on the evenin’ papers,” suggested the boy. “Wot of it, Miss?” “If you can tell me, in five minutes, what the case is all about —and how I have to begin—and anything that’s useful—l’ll give you—anything you like to ask for. You see —a friend of mine is going to take the case —just to help Mr Kenshaw.” At that moment a voice from the inner room criea out, in a sort of weak roar—“ Skipper 1 ” “That’s me!” exclaimed the boy: and disappeared through the doorway. Phyllis, listening and longing, heard but a few words of what passed inside. ‘‘Skipper-—my wig and gown. I’ve got to get up, Skipper; I’ve got to win the case—and win something else at the same time. If only this head of mine would keep still! Give me my wig and gown! ” “They’ve put the case orf, guv-nor,” said the boy earnestly. “They were so anxious you should tell ’em wot you thought of ’em that they wouldn’t go on. They’ve put it orf fer a week.” “That’s good, Skipper—that’s fine!” came the weak voice from the inner room. “I’ll be all right in a week, right as rain!” The boy came out into the room again, and closed the door. “Gorn to sleep like a lamb,” he began; and then suddenly started back, and cried out. Before him stood Mies Phyllis Holt, in an altogether incongruous dress. Her bright hair had been twisted up, and laid fiat to her head, and the very new barrister’s wig was settled firmly over it. The gown was drawn over her shoulders, and fell over her dark dress; in that uncertain light, she looked a very presentable, although rather young, member of the Junior Bar.

“Now, Skipper, sit down, and tell me as rapidly as possible what I have to do; then take me into Court, and show me where I am to sit. Don’t stare at me like that, Skipper,”—Phyllis was half crying, but very resolute—-“you’ve got to help me,and to help Mr Henshaw.” Naturally, Master Skipper knew the ease by heart; in fact, his master had practised upon him one or two rather fine speeches, on more than one occasion. >So they went at it hammer and tongs, until the hand of the little clock on the mantelpiece pointed to the halfhour. Then Phyllis sprang up, and pulled her gown about her, and prepared to set out. “I am glad I went in fer the Lor!” exclaimed Skipper, as they prepared to start. “Didn't knew there was ’alf so much fun in it. No, Miss, you don’t put nothink on yer ’ead; you goes across jist like you are. Lucky it’s foggy—• might be the middle o’ the night.” How Phyllis ever got into the Court at all 'she scarcely knew. She had a dim vision of a stern-looking gentleman in a wig, seated far away above her, and seeming to fix his eyes intently upon her face; she found herself, trembling and slirir. -Jug, seated among several barristers who were whispering to-

gether; before her eyes was a very large man, in a wig and gown, prosing away at great length upon something she did not in the least understand. The gentleman in the wig above her spoke shortly and sharply for a moment or two, and there was a movement in Court; then she understood that that particular case was finished. Then someone called out—“ Smith v. Electric Syndicate”—and, catching the eye of the attendant Skipper, she got to her feet, with something hard and painful beating in her temples. “May it please your ludship—l appear —that is to say—” Someone else was speaking, which was just as well, perhaps. For the Court seemed to be spinning round and round, and the Judge to be dancing up and down from the Bench to the ceiling. As the new barrister fell back, the strange thing was that a strong and friendly arm went round the stuff gown, and a voice she knew spoke in her ear. “It’s all right—play the game a moment longer, little woman, and we’ll get you out comfortably.” The other speaker had applied for an adjournment; certain evidence had not yet been collected. The Judge cleared his throat of the fog and peered down to where the barristers were sitting. “I regret to say, m’ lud, that my learned friend Mr Kenshaw is overcome with faintness, and quite unable to proceed. He raises no objection whatever to the adjournment.” Of course, it was all part of the faintness, but Phyllis had a curious feeling that the

man who spoke on her behalf had the voice of John Medlow. More thaa that, it was the voice of John Medlow again that whispered tn her ear to have courage, as she got out of Court, supported strongly by his arm. John said never a word, until they •were back again in Gilbert Henshaw's chambers. Then he laughed, and said something ridiculously complimentary; and then he laughed again. “Lucky I happened to be next to you,” he said. “But it wasn’t any good, after all,” said Phyllis, with a little sob. “Wasn’t it? Why—you’ve got the case adjourned—the very thing you wanted. You’ve helped Gilbert immensely; this’ll put him on his legs again.” “You don’t really mean that I—” “Don’t I? Don’t take off that wig; go in and see him, just as you are. Tell him you’ve been fighting a battle for him; tell him what you’ve done. Above all”—he dropped a hand on het shoulder as he spoke—“tell him what you mean to do; don’t stand any nonsense from him!” He opened the door of the inner room, and gently thrust her in; then closed the door again. And the curious thing has to be recorded that from that hour Mr Gilbert Kenshaw began to get well; and the still more curious fact that when, a fortnight later, he appeared in Court, he won his case, and won It well. And Phyllis Holt sat (not among the barristers this time) and listened; and was probably the proudest and happiest little woman in England.