by Ellen Wood
“I thought of taking you boys out myself this afternoon,” spoke the Major. “To see that horsemanship which is exhibiting. I hear it’s very good. Would you like to go?”
“Oh, and me too!” struck in Blanche. “Take me, papa.”
“No,” answered the Major, after reflection. “I don’t consider it a fit place for little girls. Would you boys like to go?” he asked.
We said we should like it; said it in a sort of surprise, for it was almost the first time he had ever offered to take us anywhere.
“Charles cannot go,” hastily interrupted Mrs. Carlen, who had at length opened a letter which had been lying beside her plate. “This is from Mr. Serjeant Stillingfar, Charley. He asks me to send you to his chambers this afternoon. You are to be there at three o’clock.”
“Just like old Stillingfar!” cried Tom resentfully. Considering that he did not know much of Serjeant Stillingfar and had very little experience of his ways, the reproach was gratuitous.
Major Carlen laughed at it. “We must put off the horsemanship to another day,” said he. “It will come to the same thing. I will take you out somewhere instead, Blanchie.”
Taking an omnibus in Oxford Street, when lunch was over, I went down to Holborn, and thence to Lincoln’s Inn. The reader may hardly believe that I had never been to my uncle’s chambers before, though I had sometimes been to his house. He seemed to have kept me at a distance. His rooms were on the first floor. On the outer door I read “Mr. Serjeant Stillingfar.”
“Come in,” cried out a voice, in answer to my knock. And I entered a narrow little room.
A pert-looking youth with a quantity of long, light curly hair and an eye-glass, and not much older than myself, sat on a stool at a desk, beside an unoccupied chair. He eyed me from head to foot. I wore an Eton jacket and turn-down collar; he wore a “tail” coat, a stand-up collar, and a stock.
“What do you want?” he demanded.
“I want Mr. Serjeant Stillingfar.”
“Not in; not to be seen. You can come another day.”
“But I am here by appointment.”
The young gentleman caught up his eyeglass, fixed it, and turned it on me. “I don’t think you are expected,” said he coolly.
Now, though he had been gifted with a stock of native impudence, and a very good stock it was at his time of life, I had been gifted with native modesty. I waited in silence, not knowing what to do. Two or three chairs stood about. He no doubt would have tried them all in succession, had it suited him to do so. I did not like to take one of them.
“Will my uncle be long, do you know?” I asked.
“Who is your uncle?”
“Mr. Serjeant Stillingfar.”
He put up his glass again, which had dropped, and stared at me harder than before. At this juncture an inner door was opened, and a middle-aged man in a black coat and white neckcloth came through it.
“Are you Mr. Strange?” he inquired, quietly and courteously.
“Yes. My uncle, Mr. Serjeant Stillingfar, wrote to tell me to be here at three o’clock.”
“I know. Will you step in here? The Serjeant is in Court, but will not be long. As to you, young Mr. Lake, if you persist in exercising your impudent tongue upon all comers, I shall request the Serjeant to put a stop to your sitting here at all. How many times have you been told not to take upon yourself to answer callers, but to refer them to me when Michael is out?”
“About a hundred and fifty, I suppose, old Jones. Haven’t counted them, though,” retorted Mr. Lake.
“Impertinent young rascal!” ejaculated Mr. Jones, as he took me into the next room, and turned to a little desk that stood in a corner. He was the Serjeant’s confidential clerk, and had been with him for years. Arthur Lake, beginning to read for the Bar, was allowed by the Serjeant and his clerk to sit in their chambers of a day, to pick up a little experience.
“Sit down by the fire, Mr. Strange,” said the clerk. “It is a warm day, though, for the season. I expected the Serjeant in before this. He will not be long now.”
Before I had well taken in the bearings of the room, which was the Serjeant’s own, and larger and better than the other, he came in, wearing his silk gown and gray wig. He was a little man, growing elderly now, with a round, smooth, fair face, out of which twinkled kindly blue eyes. Mr. Jones got up from his desk at once to divest him of wig and gown, producing at the same time a miniature flaxen wig, which the Serjeant put upon his head.
“So you have come, Charles!” he said, shaking hands with me as he sat down in a large elbow-chair. Mr. Jones went out with his arm full of papers and shut the door upon us.
“Yes, sir,” I answered.
“You will be sixteen next May, I believe,” he added. He had the mildest voice and manner imaginable; not at all what might be expected in a serjeant-at-law, who was supposed to take the Court by storm on occasion. “And I understand from your late master that in all your studies you are remarkably well advanced.”
“Pretty well, I think, sir,” I answered modestly.
“Ay. I am glad to hear you speak of it in a diffident, proper sort of way. Always be modest, lad; true merit ever is so. It tells, too, in the long-run. Well, Charles, I think it time that you were placed out in life.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is there any calling that you especially fancy? Any one profession you would prefer to embrace above another?”
“No, sir; I don’t know that there is. I have always had an idea that it would be the law. I think I should like that.”
“Just so,” he answered, the faint pink on his smooth cheeks growing deeper with gratification. “It is what I have always intended you to enter — provided you had no insuperable objection to it. But I shall not make a barrister of you, Charles.”
“No!” I exclaimed. “What then?”
“An attorney-at-law.”
I was too much taken by surprise to answer at once. “Is that — a gentleman’s calling, Uncle Charles?” I at length took courage to ask.
“Ay, that it is, lad,” he impressively rejoined. “It’s true you’ve no chance of the Woolsack or of a judgeship, or even of becoming a pleader, as I am. If you had a ready-made fortune, Charles, you might eat your dinners, get called, and risk it. But you have not; and I will not be the means of condemning the best years of your life to anxious poverty.”
I only looked at him, without speaking. I fancy he must have seen disappointment in my face.
“Look here, Charles,” he resumed, bending forward impressively: “I will tell you a little of my past experience. My people thought they were doing a great thing for me when they put me to the Bar. I thought the same. I was called in due course, and donned my stuff gown and wig in glory — the glory cast by the glamour of hope. How long my mind maintained that glamour; how long it was before it began to give place to doubt; how many years it took to merge doubt into despair, I cannot tell you. I think something like fifteen or twenty.”
“Fifteen or twenty years, Uncle Stillingfar!”
“Not less. I was steady, persevering, sufficiently clever. Yet practice did not come to me. It is all a lottery. I had no fortune, lad; no one to help me. I was not clever at writing for the newspapers and magazines, as many of my fellows were. And for more years than I care to recall I had a hard struggle for existence. I was engaged to be married. She was a sweet, patient girl, and we waited until we were both bordering upon middle age. Ay, Charles, I was forty years old before practice began to flow in upon me. The long lane had taken a turning at last. It flew in then with a vengeance — more work than I could possibly undertake.”
“And did you marry the young lady, Uncle Charles?” I asked in the pause he came to. I had never heard of his having a wife.
“No, child; she was dead. I think she died of waiting.”
I drew a long breath, deeply interested.
“There are scores of young fellows starving upon hope now, as I starved then, Charles. The market is terribly
overstocked. For ten barristers striving to rush into note in my days, you may count twenty or thirty in these. I will not have you swell the lists. My brother’s grandson shall never, with my consent, waste his best years in fighting with poverty, waiting for luck that may never come to him.”
“I suppose it is a lottery, as you say, sir.”
“A lottery where blanks far outweigh the prizes,” he assented. “A lottery into which you shall not enter. No, Charles; you shall be spared that. As a lawyer, I can make your progress tolerably sure. You may be a rich man in time if you will, and an honourable one. I have sounded my old friend, Henry Brightman, and I think he is willing to take you.”
“I am afraid I should not make a good pleader, sir,” I acknowledged, falling in with his views. “I can’t speak a bit. We had a debating-club at school, and in the middle of a speech I always lost myself.”
He nodded, and rose. “You shall not try it, my boy. And that’s all for to-day, Charles. All I wanted was to sound your views before making arrangements with Brightman.”
“Has he a good practice, sir?”
“He has a very large and honourable practice, Charles. He is a good man and a gentleman,” concluded the Serjeant emphatically. “All being well, you may become his partner sometime.”
“Am I not to go to Oxford, sir?” I asked wistfully.
“If you particularly wish to do so and circumstances permit it, you may perhaps keep a few terms when you are out of your articles,” he replied, with hesitation. “We shall see, Charles, when that time comes.”
* * * * *
“What a shame!” exclaimed Mrs. Carlen, when I reached home. “Make you a lawyer! That he never shall, Charles. I shall not allow it. I will go down and remonstrate with him.”
Major Carlen said it was a shame; said it contemptuously. Tom said it was a double-shame, and threw a host of hard words upon Mr. Serjeant Stillingfar. Blanche began to cry. She had been reading that day about a press-gang, and quite believed my fate would be worse than that of being pressed.
After breakfast, next morning, we hastened to Lincoln’s Inn: I and Mrs. Carlen, for she kept her word. I should be a barrister or nothing, she protested. All very fine to say so! She had no power over me whatever. That lay with Mr. Serjeant Stillingfar and the other trustee, and he never interfered. If they chose to article me to a chimneysweep instead of a lawyer, no one could say them nay.
Mr. Jones and young Lake sat side by side at the desk in the first room when we arrived. Mr. Serjeant Stillingfar was in his own room. He received us very kindly, shaking hands with Mrs. Carlen, whom he had seen occasionally. Mrs. Carlen, sitting opposite to him, entered upon her protest, and was meekly listened to by the Serjeant.
“Better be a successful attorney, madam, than a briefless barrister,” he observed, when she finished.
“All barristers are not briefless,” said Mrs. Carlen.
“A great many of them are,” he answered. “Some of them never make their mark at all; they live and die struggling men.” And, leaning forward in his chair — as he had leaned towards me yesterday — he repeated a good deal that he had then said of his own history; his long-continued poverty, and his despairing struggles. Mrs. Carlen’s heart melted.
“Yes, I know. It is very sad, dear Mr. Serjeant, and I am sure your experience is only that of many others,” she sighed. “But, if I understand the matter rightly, the chief trouble of these young barristers is their poverty. Had they means to live, they could wait patiently and comfortably until success came to them.”
“Of course,” he assented. “It is the want of private means that makes the uphill path so hard.”
“Charles has his three hundred a year.”
The faint pink in his cheeks, just the hue of a sea-shell, turned to crimson. I was sitting beyond the table, and saw it. He glanced across at me.
“It will take more money to make Charles a lawyer and to ensure him a footing afterwards in a good house than it would to get him called to the Bar,” he said with a smile.
“Yes — perhaps so. But that is not quite the argument, Mr. Serjeant,” said my stepmother. “Any young man who has three hundred a year may manage to live upon it.”
“It is to be hoped so. I know I should have thought three hundred a year a perfect gold-mine.”
“Then you see Charles need not starve while waiting for briefs to come in to him. Do you not see that, Mr. Serjeant?”
“I see it very clearly,” he mildly said. “Had Charles his three hundred a year to fall back upon, he might have gone to the Bar had he liked, and risked the future.”
“But he has it,” Mrs. Carlen rejoined, surprise in her tone.
“No, madam, he has it not. Nor two hundred a year, nor one hundred.”
They silently looked at one another for a full minute. Mrs. Carlen evidently could not understand his meaning. I am sure I did not.
“Charles’s money, I am sorry to say, is lost,” he continued.
“Lost! Since when?”
“Since the bank-panic that we had nearly two years ago.”
Mrs. Carlen collapsed. “Oh, dear!” she breathed. “Did you — pray forgive the question, Mr. Serjeant — did you lose it? Or — or — the other trustee?”
He shook his head. “No, no. We neither lost it, nor are we responsible for the loss. Charles’s grandfather, my brother, invested the money, six thousand pounds, in bank debentures to bring in five per cent. He settled the money upon his daughter, Lucy, and upon her children after her, making myself and our old friend, George Wickham, trustees. In the panic of two years ago this bank went; its shares and its debentures became all but worthless.”
“Is the money all gone? quite gone?” gasped Mrs. Carlen. “Will it never be recovered?”
“The debentures are Charles’s still, but they are for the present almost worthless,” he replied. “The bank went on again, and if it can recover itself and regain prosperity, Charles in the end may not greatly suffer. He may regain his money, or part of it. But it will not be yet awhile. The unused portion of the income had been sunk, year by year, in further debentures, in accordance with the directions of the will. All went.”
“But — someone must have paid for Charles all this time — two whole years!” she reiterated, in vexed surprise.
“Yes! it has been managed,” he gently said.
“I think you must have paid for him yourself,” spoke Mrs. Carlen with impulse. “I think it is you who are intending to pay the premium to Mr. Brightman, and to provide for his future expenses? You are a good man, Mr. Serjeant Stillingfar!”
His face broke into a smile: the rare sweet smile which so seldom crossed it. “I am only lending it to him. Charley will repay me when he is a rich man. But you see now, Mrs. Carlen, why a certainty will be better for him than an uncertainty.”
We saw it all too clearly, and there was no more remonstrance to be made. Mrs. Carlen rose to leave, just as Mr. Jones came bustling into the room.
“Time is up, sir,” he said to his master. “The Court will be waiting.”
“Ah, so: is it? Good-morning, madam,” he added, politely dismissing her. “I shall send for you here again in a day or two, Charles.”
“Thank you for what you are doing for me, Uncle Charles,” I whispered. “It is very kind of you.”
He laid his hand upon my shoulder affectionately, keeping it there for a few seconds. And as we went out, the last glimpse I had was of his kind, gentle face, and Mr. Jones standing ready to assist him on with his wig and gown.
And we went back to Gloucester Place aware that my destiny in life was settled.
CHAPTER IV.
IN ESSEX STREET.
Henry Brightman’s offices were in Essex Street, Strand, near the Temple. He rented the whole house: a capital house, towards the bottom of the street on the left-hand side as you go down. His father, who had been head and chief of the firm, had lived in it. But old Mr. Brightman was dead, and his son, now sole master, lived ov
er the water on the Surrey side, in a style his father would never have dreamt of. It was a firm of repute and consideration; and few legal firms, if any, in London were better regarded.
It was to this gentleman my uncle, Mr. Serjeant Stillingfar, articled me: and a gentleman Henry Brightman was in every sense of the term. He was a slender man of middle height, with a bright, pleasant face, quick, dark eyes, and brown hair. Very much to my surprise, I found, when arrangements were being made for me, that I was to live in the house. Serjeant Stillingfar had made it a condition that I should do so. He and the late Mr. Brightman had been firm friends, and his friendship was continued to Henry. An old lady, one Miss Methold, a cousin of the Brightmans, resided in the house, and I was to take up my abode with her. She was a kind old thing, though a little stern and reserved, and she made me very comfortable.
There were several clerks; and one articled pupil, who was leaving the house as I entered it. The head of all was a gentleman named Lennard, who seemed to take all management upon himself, under Mr. Brightman. George Lennard was a tall spare man, with a thin, fair, aristocratic face and well-formed features. He looked about thirty-five years old, and an impression prevailed in the office that he was well-born, well-connected, and had come down in the world through loss of fortune. A man of few words, attentive, and always at his post, Lennard was an excellent superintendent, ruling with a strict yet kindly hand.
One day, some weeks after I had entered, as I was at dinner with Miss Methold in her sitting-room, and the weather was warm enough for all doors to be open, we heard horses and carriage-wheels dash up to the house. The room was at the head of the stairs, leading from the offices to the kitchen: a large, pleasant room with a window looking towards the Temple chambers and the winding river.