MR. FURNIVAL’S CHAMBERS

Mr. Furnival’s chambers were on the first floor in a very dingy edifice in Old Square, Lincoln’s Inn.  This square was always dingy, even when it was comparatively open and served as the approach from Chancery Lane to the Lord Chancellor’s Court; but now it has been built up with new shops for the Vice-Chancellor, and to my eyes it seems more dingy than ever.

He there occupied three rooms, all of them sufficiently spacious for the purposes required, but which were made oppressive by their general dinginess and by a smell of old leather which pervaded them.  In one of them sat at his desk Mr. Crabwitz, a gentleman who had now been with Mr. Furnival for the last fifteen years, and who considered that no inconsiderable portion of the barrister’s success had been attributable to his own energy and genius.  Mr. Crabwitz was a genteel-looking man, somewhat over forty years of age, very careful as to his gloves, hat, and umbrella, and not a little particular as to his associates.  As he was unmarried, fond of ladies’ society, and presumed to be a warm man in money matters, he had his social successes, and looked down from a considerable altitude on some men who from their professional rank might have been considered as his superiors.  He had a small bachelor’s box down at Barnes, and not unfrequently went abroad in the vacations.  The door opening into the room of Mr. Crabwitz was in the corner fronting you on the left-hand side as you entered the chambers.  Immediately on your left was a large waiting-room, in which an additional clerk usually sat at an ordinary table.  He was not an authorised part of the establishment, being kept only from week to week; but nevertheless, for the last two or three years he had been always there, and Mr. Crabwitz intended that he should remain, for he acted as fag to Mr. Crabwitz.  This waiting-room was very dingy, much more so than the clerk’s room, and boasted of no furniture but eight old leathern chairs and two old tables.  It was surrounded by shelves which were laden with books and dust, which by no chance were ever disturbed.  But to my ideas the most dingy of the three rooms was that large one in which the great man himself sat; the door of which directly fronted you as you entered.  The furniture was probably better than that in the other chambers, and the place had certainly the appearance of warmth and life which comes from frequent use; but nevertheless, of all the rooms in which I ever sat I think it was the most gloomy.  There were heavy curtains to the windows, which had once been ruby but were now brown; and the ceiling was brown, and the thick carpet was brown, and the books which covered every portion of the wall were brown, and the painted wood-work of the doors and windows was of a dark brown.  Here, on the morning with which we have now to deal, sat Mr. Furnival over his papers from ten to twelve, at which latter hour Lady Mason was to come to him.  The holidays of Mr. Crabwitz had this year been cut short in consequence of his patron’s attendance at the great congress which was now sitting, and although all London was a desert, as he had piteously complained to a lady of his acquaintance whom he had left at Boulogne, he was there in the midst of the desert, and on this morning was sitting in attendance at his usual desk.

Why Mr. Furnival should have breakfasted by himself at half-past eight in order that he might be at his chambers at ten, seeing that the engagement for which he had come to town was timed for twelve, I will not pretend to say.  He did not ask his wife to join him, and consequently she did not come down till her usual time.  Mr. Furnival breakfasted by himself, and at ten o’clock he was in his chambers.  Though alone for two hours he was not idle, and exactly at twelve Mr. Crabwitz opened his door and announced Lady Mason.

When we last parted with her after her interview with Sir Peregrine Orme, she had resolved not to communicate with her friend the lawyer, ­at any rate not to do so immediately.  Thinking on that resolve she had tried to sleep that night; but her mind was altogether disturbed, and she could get no rest.  What, if after twenty years of tranquillity all her troubles must now be recommenced?  What if the battle were again to be fought, ­with such termination as the chances might send to her?  Why was it that she was so much greater a coward now than she had been then?  Then she had expected defeat, for her friends had bade her not to be sanguine; but in spite of that she had borne up and gone gallantly through the ordeal.  But now she felt that if Orley Farm were hers to give she would sooner abandon it than renew the contest.  Then, at that former period of her life, she had prepared her mind to do or die in the cause.  She had wrought herself up for the work, and had carried it through.  But having done that work, having accomplished her terrible task, she had hoped that rest might be in store for her.

As she rose from her bed on the morning after her interview with Sir Peregrine, she determined that she would seek counsel from him in whose counsel she could trust.  Sir Peregrine’s friendship was more valuable to her than that of Mr. Furnival, but a word of advice from Mr. Furnival was worth all the spoken wisdom of the baronet, ten times over.  Therefore she wrote her letter, and proposed an appointment; and Mr. Furnival, tempted as I have said by some evil spirit to stray after strange goddesses in these his blue-nosed days, had left his learned brethren at their congress in Birmingham, and had hurried up to town to assist the widow.  He had left that congress, though the wisest Rustums of the law from all the civilised countries of Europe were there assembled, with Boanerges at their head, that great, old, valiant, learned, British Rustum, inquiring with energy, solemnity, and caution, with much shaking of ponderous heads and many sarcasms from those which were not ponderous, whether any and what changes might be made in the modes of answering that great question, “Guilty or not guilty?” and that other equally great question, “Is it meum or is it tuum?” To answer which question justly should be the end and object of every lawyer’s work.  There were great men there from Paris, very capable, the Ulpians, Tribonians, and Papinians of the new empire, armed with the purest sentiments expressed in antithetical and magniloquent phrases, ravishing to the ears, and armed also with a code which, taken in its integrity, would necessarily, as the logical consequence of its clauses, drive all injustice from the face of the earth.  And there were great practitioners from Germany, men very skilled in the use of questions, who profess that the tongue of man, if adequately skilful, may always prevail on guilt to disclose itself; who believe in the power of their own craft to produce truth, as our forefathers believed in torture; and sometimes with the same result.  And of course all that was great on the British bench, and all that was famous at the British bar was there, ­men very unlike their German brethren, men who thought that guilt never should be asked to tell of itself, ­men who were customarily but unconsciously shocked whenever unwary guilt did tell of itself.  Men these were, mostly of high and noble feeling, born and bred to live with upright hearts and clean hands, but taught by the peculiar tenets of their profession to think that that which was high and noble in their private intercourse with the world need not also be so esteemed in their legal practice.  And there were Italians there, good-humoured, joking, easy fellows, who would laugh their clients in and out of their difficulties; and Spaniards, very grave and serious, who doubted much in their minds whether justice might not best be bought and sold; and our brethren from the United States were present also, very eager to show that in this country law, and justice also, were clouded and nearly buried beneath their wig and gown.

All these and all this did Mr. Furnival desert for the space of twenty-four hours in order that he might comply with the request of Lady Mason.  Had she known what it was that she was calling on him to leave, no doubt she would have borne her troubles for another week, ­for another fortnight, till those Rustums at Birmingham had brought their labours to a close.  She would not have robbed the English bar of one of the warmest supporters of its present mode of practice, even for a day, had she known how much that support was needed at the present moment.  But she had not known; and Mr. Furnival, moved by her woman’s plea, had not been hard enough in his heart to refuse her.

When she entered the room she was dressed very plainly as was her custom, and a thick veil covered her face; but still she was dressed with care.  There was nothing of the dowdiness of the lone lorn woman about her, none of that lanky, washed-out appearance which sorrow and trouble so often give to females.  Had she given way to dowdiness, or suffered herself to be, as it were, washed out, Mr. Furnival, we may say, would not have been there to meet her; ­of which fact Lady Mason was perhaps aware.

“I am so grateful to you for this trouble,” she said, as she raised her veil, and while he pressed her hand between both his own.  “I can only ask you to believe that I would not have troubled you unless I had been greatly troubled myself.”

Mr. Furnival, as he placed her in an arm-chair by the fireside, declared his sorrow that she should be in grief, and then he took the other arm-chair himself, opposite to her, or rather close to her, ­much closer to her than he ever now seated himself to Mrs. F.  “Don’t speak of my trouble,” said he, “it is nothing if I can do anything to relieve you.”  But though he was so tender, he did not omit to tell her of her folly in having informed her son that she was to be in London.  “And have you seen him?” asked Lady Mason.

“He was in Harley Street with the ladies last night.  But it does not matter.  It is only for your sake that I speak, as I know that you wish to keep this matter private.  And now let us hear what it is.  I cannot think that there can be anything which need really cause you trouble.”  And he again took her hand, ­that he might encourage her.  Lady Mason let him keep her hand for a minute or so, as though she did not notice it; and yet as she turned her eyes to him it might appear that his tenderness had encouraged her.

Sitting there thus, with her hand in his, ­with her hand in his during the first portion of the tale, ­she told him all that she wished to tell.  Something more she told now to him than she had done to Sir Peregrine.  “I learned from her,” she said, speaking about Mrs. Dockwrath and her husband, “that he had found out something about dates which the lawyers did not find out before.”

“Something about dates,” said Mr. Furnival, looking with all his eyes into the fire.  “You do not know what about dates?”

“No; only this; that he said that the lawyers in Bedford Row ­”

“Round and Crook.”

“Yes; he said that they were idiots not to have found it out before; and then he went off to Groby Park.  He came back last night; but of course I have not seen her since.”

By this time Mr. Furnival had dropped the hand, and was sitting still, meditating, looking earnestly at the fire while Lady Mason was looking earnestly at him.  She was trying to gather from his face whether he had seen signs of danger, and he was trying to gather from her words whether there might really be cause to apprehend danger.  How was he to know what was really inside her mind; what were her actual thoughts and inward reasonings on this subject; what private knowledge she might have which was still kept back from him?  In the ordinary intercourse of the world when one man seeks advice from another, he who is consulted demands in the first place that he shall be put in possession of all the circumstances of the case.  How else will it be possible that he should give advice?  But in matters of law it is different.  If I, having committed a crime, were to confess my criminality to the gentleman engaged to defend me, might he not be called on to say:  “Then, O my friend, confess it also to the judge; and so let justice be done.  Ruat coelum, and the rest of it?” But who would pay a lawyer for counsel such as that?

In this case there was no question of payment.  The advice to be given was to a widowed woman from an experienced man of the world; but, nevertheless, he could only make his calculations as to her peculiar case in the way in which he ordinarily calculated.  Could it be possible that anything had been kept back from him?  Were there facts unknown to him, but known to her, which would be terrible, fatal, damning to his sweet friend if proved before all the world?  He could not bring himself to ask her, but yet it was so material that he should know!  Twenty years ago, at the time of the trial, he had at one time thought, ­it hardly matters to tell what, but those thoughts had not been favourable to her cause.  Then his mind had altered, and he had learned, ­as lawyers do learn, ­to believe in his own case.  And when the day of triumph had come, he had triumphed loudly, commiserating his dear friend for the unjust suffering to which she had been subjected, and speaking in no low or modified tone as to the grasping, greedy cruelty of that man of Groby Park.  Nevertheless, through it all, he had felt that Round and Crook had not made the most of their case.

And now he sat, thinking, not so much whether or no she had been in any way guilty with reference to that will, as whether the counsel he should give her ought in any way to be based on the possibility of her having been thus guilty.  Nothing might be so damning to her cause as that he should make sure of her innocence, if she were not innocent; and yet he would not ask her the question.  If innocent, why was it that she was now so much moved, after twenty years of quiet possession?

“It was a pity,” he said, at last, “that Lucius should have disturbed that fellow in the possession of his fields.”

“It was; it was!” she said.  “But I did not think it possible that Miriam’s husband should turn against me.  Would it be wise, do you think, to let him have the land again?”

“No, I do not think that.  It would be telling him, and telling others also, that you are afraid of him.  If he have obtained any information that may be considered of value by Joseph Mason, he can sell it at a higher price than the holding of these fields is worth.”

“Would it be well ?” She was asking a question and then checked herself.

“Would what be well?”

“I am so harassed that I hardly know what I am saying.  Would it be wise, do you think, if I were to pay him anything, so as to keep him quiet?”

“What; buy him off, you mean?”

“Well, yes; ­if you call it so.  Give him some sum of money in compensation for his land; and on the understanding, you know ­,” and then she paused.

“That depends on what he may have to sell,” said Mr. Furnival, hardly daring to look at her.

“Ah; yes,” said the widow.  And then there was another pause.

“I do not think that that would be at all discreet,” said Mr. Furnival.  “After all, the chances are that it is all moonshine.”

“You think so?”

“Yes; I cannot but think so.  What can that man possibly have found among the old attorney’s papers that may be injurious to your interests?”

“Ah!  I do not know; I understand so little of these things.  At the time they told me, ­you told me that the law might possibly go against my boy’s rights.  It would have been bad then, but it would be ten times more dreadful now.”

“But there were many questions capable of doubt then, which were definitely settled at the trial.  As to your husband’s intellect on that day, for instance.”

“There could be no doubt as to that.”

“No; so it has been proved; and they will not raise that point again.  Could he have possibly have made a later will?”

“No; I am sure he did not.  Had he done so it could not have been found among Mr. Usbech’s papers; for, as far as I remember, the poor man never attended to any business after that day.”

“What day?”

“The 14th of July, the day on which he was with Sir Joseph.”

It was singular, thought the barrister, with how much precision she remembered the dates and circumstances.  That the circumstances of the trial should be fresh on her memory was not wonderful; but how was it that she knew so accurately things which had occurred before the trial, ­when no trial could have been expected?  But as to this he said nothing.

“And you are sure he went to Groby Park?”

“Oh, yes; I have no doubt of it.  I am quite sure.”

“I do not know that we can do anything but wait.  Have you mentioned this to Sir Peregrine?” It immediately occurred to Lady Mason’s mind that it would be by no means expedient, even if it were possible, to keep Mr. Furnival in ignorance of anything that she really did; and therefore explained that she had seen Sir Peregrine.  “I was so troubled at the first moment that I hardly knew where to turn,” she said.

“You were quite right to go to Sir Peregrine.”

“I am so glad you are not angry with me as to that.”

“And did he say anything ­anything particular?”

“He promised that he would not desert me, should there be any new difficulty.”

“That is well.  It is always good to have the countenance of such a neighbour as he is.”

“And the advice of such a friend as you are.”  And she again put out her hand to him.

“Well; yes.  It is my trade, you know, to give advice,” and he smiled as he took it.

“How should I live through such troubles without you?”

“We lawyers are very much abused now-a-days,” said Mr. Furnival, thinking of what was going on down at Birmingham at that very moment; “but I hardly know how the world would get on without us.”

“Ah! but all lawyers are not like you.”

“Some perhaps worse, and a great many much better.  But, as I was saying, I do not think I would take any steps at present.  The man Dockwrath is a vulgar, low-minded, revengeful fellow; and I would endeavour to forget him.”

“Ah, if I could!”

“And why not?  What can he possibly have learned to your injury?” And then as it seemed to Lady Mason that Mr. Furnival expected some reply to this question, she forced herself to give him one.  “I suppose that he cannot know anything.”

“I tell you what I might do,” said Mr. Furnival, who was still musing.  “Round himself is not a bad fellow, and I am acquainted with him.  He was the junior partner in that house at the time of the trial, and I know that he persuaded Joseph Mason not to appeal to the Lords.  I will contrive, if possible, to see him.  I shall be able to learn from him at any rate whether anything is being done.”

“And then if I hear that there is not, I shall be comforted.”

“Of course; of course.”

“But if there is ­”

“I think there will be nothing of the sort,” said Mr. Furnival, leaving his seat as he spoke.

“But if there is ­I shall have your aid?” and she slowly rose from her chair as she spoke.

Mr. Furnival gave her a promise of this, as Sir Peregrine had done before; and then with her handkerchief to her eyes she thanked him.  Her tears were not false as Mr. Furnival well saw; and seeing that she wept, and seeing that she was beautiful, and feeling that in her grief and in her beauty she had come to him for aid, his heart was softened towards her, and he put out his arms as though he would take her to his heart ­as a daughter.  “Dearest friend,” he said, “trust me that no harm shall come to you.”

“I will trust you,” she said, gently stopping the motion of his arm.  “I will trust you, altogether.  And when you have seen Mr. Round, shall I hear from you?”

At this moment, as they were standing close together, the door opened, and Mr. Crabwitz introduced another lady ­who indeed had advanced so quickly towards the door of Mr. Furnival’s room, that the clerk had been hardly able to reach it before her.

“Mrs. Furnival, if you please, sir,” said Mr. Crabwitz.