'I will never see her again, Alaric! never; she talked of her daughter's money, and said something of suspicion!' Suspicion! Gertrude's eye again flashed fire with anger; and she all but stamped with her little foot upon the ground. Suspicion! suspect him, her husband, the choice of her heart, her Alaric, the human god whom she worshipped! suspect him of robbery! her lord, her heart, her soul, the strong staff on which she leaned so securely, with such true feminine confidence! Suspect him of common vile dishonesty!—'You will never ask me to see her again —will you, Alaric?'

What was he to say to her? how was he to bear this? His heart yearned to tell her all; he longed for the luxury of having one bosom to whom he could entrust his misery, his slight remaining hope. But how could he himself, at one blow, by one word, destroy the high and polished shaft on which she whom he loved had placed him? He could not do it. He would suffer by himself; hope by himself, cease to hope by himself, and endure all, till either his sufferings or his hopes should be over.

He had to pretend that he was indignant at Mrs. Val's interference; he had to counterfeit the feelings of outraged honour, which was so natural to Gertrude. This he failed to do well. Had he been truly honest—had that woman's suspicion really done him injustice—he would have received his wife's tidings with grave displeasure, and have simply resolved to acquit himself as soon as possible of the disagreeable trust which had been reposed in him. But such was not now his conduct. He contented himself by calling Mrs. Val names, and pretended to laugh at her displeasure.

'But you will give up this trust, won't you?' said Gertrude.

'I will think about it,' said he. 'Before I do anything I must consult old Figgs. Things of that kind can't be put out of their course by the spleen of an old woman like Mrs. Val.'

'Oh, Alaric, I do so wish you had had nothing to do with these Scotts!'

'So do I,' said he, bitterly; 'I hate them—but, Gertrude, don't talk about them now; my head aches, and I am tired.'

He sat at home the whole evening; and though he was by no means gay, and hardly affectionate in his demeanour to her, yet she could not but feel that some good effect had sprung from his recent dislike to the Scotts, since it kept him at home with her. Lately he had generally spent his evenings at his club. She longed to speak to him of his future career, of his proposed seat in Parliament, of his office-work; but he gave her no encouragement to speak of such things, and, as he pleaded that he was ill, she left him in quiet on the sofa.

On the next morning he again went to his office, and in the course of the morning a note was brought to him from Undy. It ran as follows:—

'MY DEAR TUDOR,

'Is Val to have the shares? Let me have a line by the bearer.

'Yours ever,

'U. S.'

To this he replied by making an appointment to meet Undy before dinner at his own office.

At the time fixed Undy came, and was shown by the sole remaining messenger into Alaric's private room. The two shook hands together in their accustomed way. Undy smiled good-humouredly, as he always did; and Alaric maintained his usual composed and uncommunicative look.

'Well,' said Undy, sitting down, 'how about those shares?'

'I am glad you have come,' said Alaric, 'because I want to speak to you with some earnestness.'

'I am quite in earnest myself,' said Undy; 'and so, by G—, is Val. I never saw a fellow more in earnest—nor yet apparently more hard up. I hope you have the shares ready, or else a cheque for the amount.'

'Look here, Undy; if my doing this were the only means of saving both you and me from rotting in gaol, by the Creator that made me I would not do it!'

'I don't know that it will have much effect upon me, one way or the other,' said Undy, coolly; 'but it seems to me to be the only way that can save yourself from some such fate. Shall I tell you what the clauses are of this new bill about trust property?'

'I know the clauses well enough; I know my own position; and I know yours also.'

'D—- your impudence!' said Undy; 'how do you dare to league me with your villany? Have I been the girl's trustee? have I drawn, or could I have drawn, a shilling of her money? I tell you, Tudor, you are in the wrong box. You have one way of escape, and one only. I don't want to ruin you; I'll save you if I can; I think you have treated the girl in a most shameful way, nevertheless I'll save you if I can; but mark this, if this money be not at once produced I cannot save you.'

Alaric felt that he was covered with cold perspiration. His courage did not fail him; he would willingly have taken Undy by the throat, could his doing so have done himself or his cause any good; but he felt that he was nearly overset by the cool deep villany of his companion.

'I have treated the girl badly—very badly,' he said, after a pause; 'whether or no you have done so too I leave to your own conscience, if you have a conscience. I do not now mean to accuse you; but you may know this for certain—my present anxiety is to restore to her that which I have taken from her; and for no earthly consideration—not to save my own wife—will I increase the deficiency.'

'Why, man, what nonsense you talk—as if I did not know all the time that you have your pocket full of these shares.'

'Whatever I have, I hold for her. If I could succeed in getting out of your hands enough to make up the full sum that I owe her—'

'You will succeed in getting nothing from me. When I borrowed L5,000 from you, it was not understood that I was to be called upon for the money in three or four months' time.'

'Now look here, Scott; you have threatened me with ruin and a prison, and I will not say but your threats may possibly prove true. It may be that I am ruined; but, if I fall, you shall share my fall.'

'That's false,' said Undy. 'I am free to hold my head before the world, which you are not. I have done nothing to bring me to shame.'

'Nothing to bring you to shame, and yet you would now have me give you a further portion of this girl's money!'

'Nothing! I care nothing about the girl's money. I have not touched it, nor do I want to touch it. I bring you a message from my brother; you have ample means of your own to comply with his request.'

'Then tell your brother,' said Alaric, now losing all control over his temper—'tell your brother, if indeed he have any part in this villany—tell your brother that if it were to save me from the gallows, he should not have a shilling. I have done very badly in this matter; I have acted shamefully, and I am ashamed, but——'

'Oh, I want to hear none of your rhapsodies,' said Undy. 'If you will not now do what I ask you, I may as well go, and you may take the consequences;' and he lifted his hat as though preparing to take his leave.

'But you shall hear me,' said Alaric, rising quickly from his seat, and standing between Undy and the door. Undy very coolly walked to the bell and rang it. 'I have much to answer for,' continued Alaric, 'but I would not have your sin on my soul, I would not be as black as you are, though, by being so, I could save myself with certainty from all earthly punishment.'

As he finished, the messenger opened the door. 'Show Mr. Scott out,' said Alaric.

'By, by,' said Undy. 'You will probably hear from Mrs. Val and her daughter to-morrow,' and so saying he walked jauntily along the passage, and went jauntily to his dinner at his club. It was part of his philosophy that nothing should disturb the even tenor of his way, or interfere with his animal comforts. He was at the present moment over head and ears in debt; he was playing a game which, in all human probability, would end in his ruin; the ground was sinking beneath his feet on every side; and yet he thoroughly enjoyed his dinner. Alaric could not make such use of his philosophy. Undy Scott might be the worse man of the two, but he was the better philosopher.

Not on the next day, or on the next, did Alaric hear from Mrs. Val, but on the following Monday he got a note from her begging him to call in Ebury Street. She underscored every line of it once or twice, and added, in a postscript, that he would, she was sure, at once acknowledge the NECESSITY of her request, as she wished to communicate with him on the subject of her DAUGHTER'S FORTUNE.

Alaric immediately sent an answer to her by a messenger. 'My dear Mrs. Scott,' said he, 'I am very sorry that an engagement prevents my going to you this evening; but, as I judge by your letter, and by what I have heard from Gertrude, that you are anxious about this trust arrangement, I will call at ten to- morrow morning on my way to the office.'

Having written and dispatched this, he sat for an hour leaning with his elbows on the table and his hands clasped, looking with apparent earnestness at the rows of books which stood inverted before him, trying to make up his mind as to what step he should now take.

Not that he sat an hour undisturbed. Every five minutes some one would come knocking at the door; the name of some aspirant to the Civil Service would be brought to him, or the card of some influential gentleman desirous of having a little job perpetrated in favour of his own peculiarly interesting, but perhaps not very highly-educated, young candidate. But on this morning Alaric would see no one; to every such intruder he sent a reply that he was too deeply engaged at the present moment to see any one. After one he would be at liberty, &c., &c.

And so he sat and looked at the books; but he could in nowise make up his mind. He could in nowise bring himself even to try to make up his mind—that is, to make any true effort towards doing so. His thoughts would run off from him, not into the happy outer world, but into a multitude of noisy, unpleasant paths, all intimately connected with his present misery, but none of which led him at all towards the conclusions at which he would fain arrive. He kept on reflecting what Sir Gregory would think when he heard of it; what all those clerks would say at the Weights and Measures, among whom he had held his head so high; what shouts there would be among the navvies and other low pariahs of the service; how Harry Norman would exult—(but he did not yet know Harry Norman);—how the Woodwards would weep; how Gertrude— and then as he thought of that he bowed his head, for he could no longer endure the open light of day. At one o'clock he was no nearer to any decision than he had been when he reached his office.

At three he put himself into a cab, and was taken to the city. Oh, the city, the weary city, where men go daily to look for money, but find none; where every heart is eaten up by an accursed famishing after gold; where dark, gloomy banks come thick on each other, like the black, ugly apertures to the realms below in a mining district, each of them a separate little pit- mouth into hell. Alaric went into the city, and found that the shares were still rising. That imperturbable witness was still in the chair at the committee, and men said that he was disgusting the members by the impregnable endurance of his hostility. A man who could answer 2,250 questions without admitting anything must be a liar! Such a one could convince no one! And so the shares went on rising, rising, and rising, and Messrs. Blocks, Piles, and Cofferdam were buying up every share; either doing that openly—or else selling on the sly.

Alaric found that he could at once realize L7,600. Were he to do this, there would be at any rate seven-eighths of his ward's fortune secure.

Might he not, in such a case, calculate that even Mrs. Val's heart would be softened, and that time would be allowed him to make up the small remainder? Oh, but in such case he must tell Mrs. Val; and could he calculate on her forbearance? Might he not calculate with much more certainty on her love of triumphing? Would he not be her slave if she had the keeping of his secret? And why should he run so terrible a risk of destroying himself? Why should he confide in Mrs. Val, and deprive himself of the power of ever holding up his head again, when, possibly, he might still run out his course with full sails, and bring his vessel into port, giving no knowledge to the world of the perilous state in which she had been thus ploughing the deep? He need not, at any rate, tell everything to Mrs. Val at his coming visit on the morrow.

He consulted his broker with his easiest air of common concern as to his money; and the broker gave him a dubious opinion. 'They may go a little higher, sir; indeed I think they will. But they are ticklish stock, sir—uncommon ticklish. I should not like to hold many myself, sir.' Alaric knew that the man was right; they were ticklish stock: but nevertheless he made up his mind to hold on a little longer.

He then got into another cab and went back to his office; and as he went he began to bethink himself to whom of all his friends he might apply for such a loan as would enable him to make up this sum of money, if he sold his shares on the morrow. Captain Cuttwater was good for L1,000, but he knew that he could not get more from him. It would be bad borrowing, he thought, from Sir Gregory. Intimate as he had been with that great man, he knew nothing of his money concerns; but he had always heard that Sir Gregory was a close man. Sir Warwick, his other colleague, was in easy circumstances; but then he had never been intimate with Sir Warwick. Norman—ah, if he had known Norman now, Norman would have pulled him through; but hope in that quarter there was, of course, none. Norman was gone, and Norman's place had been filled by Undy Scott! What could be done with Undy Scott he had already tried. Fidus Neverbend! he had a little money saved; but Fidus was not the man to do anything without security. He, he, Alaric Tudor, he, whose credit had stood, did stand, so high, did not know where to borrow, how to raise a thousand pounds; and yet he felt that had he not wanted it so sorely, he could have gotten it easily.

He was in a bad state for work when he got back to the office on that day. He was flurried, ill at ease, wretched, all but distracted; nevertheless he went rigidly to it, and remained there till late in the evening. He was a man generally blessed with excellent health; but now he suddenly found himself ill, and all but unable to accomplish the task which he had prescribed to himself. His head was heavy and his eyes weak, and he could not bring himself to think of the papers which lay before him.

Then at last he went home, and had another sad and solitary walk across the Parks, during which he vainly tried to rally himself again, and collect his energies for the work which he had to do. It was in such emergencies as this that he knew that it most behoved a man to fall back upon what manliness there might be within him; now was the time for him to be true to himself; he had often felt proud of his own energy of purpose; and now was the opportunity for him to use such energy, if his pride in this respect had not been all in vain.

Such were the lessons with which he endeavoured to strengthen himself, but it was in vain; he could not feel courageous—he could not feel hopeful—he could not do other than despair. When he got home, he again prostrated himself, again declared himself ill, again buried his face in his hands, and answered the affection of his wife by saying that a man could not always be cheerful, could not always laugh. Gertrude, though she was very far indeed from guessing the truth, felt that something extraordinary was the matter, and knew that her husband's uneasiness was connected with the Scotts.

He came down to dinner, and though he ate but little, he drank glass after glass of sherry. He thus gave himself courage to go out in the evening and face the world at his club. He found Undy there as he expected, but he had no conversation with him, though they did not absolutely cut each other. Alaric fancied that men stared at him, and sat apart by himself, afraid to stand up among talking circles, or to put himself forward as it was his wont to do. He himself avoided other men, and then felt that others were avoiding him. He took up one evening paper after another, pretending to read them, but hardly noticing a word that came beneath his eye: at last, however, a name struck him which riveted his attention, and he read the following paragraph, which was among many others, containing information as to the coming elections.

'STRATHBOGY.—We hear that Lord Gaberlunzie's eldest son will retire from this borough, and that his place will be filled by his brother, the Honourable Captain Valentine Scott. The family have been so long connected with Strathbogy by ties of friendship and near neighbourhood, and the mutual alliance has been so much to the taste of both parties, that no severance need be anticipated.'

Alaric's first emotion was one of anger at the whole Scott tribe, and his first resolve was to go down to Strathbogy and beat that inanimate fool, Captain Val, on his own ground; but he was not long in reflecting that, under his present circumstances, it would be madness in him to bring his name prominently forward in any quarrel with the Scott family. This disappointment he might at any rate bear; it would be well for him if this were all. He put the paper down with an affected air of easy composure, and walked home through the glaring gas-lights, still trying to think—still trying, but in vain, to come to some definite resolve.

And then on the following morning he went off to call on Mrs. Val. He had as yet told Gertrude nothing. When she asked him what made him start so early, he merely replied that he had business to do on his road. As lie went, he had considerable doubt whether or no it would be better for him to break his word to Mrs. Val, and not go near her at all. In such event he might be sure that she would at once go to work and do her worst; but, nevertheless, he would gain a day, or probably two, and one or two days might do all that he required; whereas he could not see Mrs. Val without giving her some explanation, which if false would be discovered to be false, and if true would be self-condemnatory. He again, however, failed to decide, and at last knocked at Mrs. Val's door merely because he found himself there.

He was shown up into the drawing-room, and found, of course, Mrs. Val seated on a sofa; and he also found, which was not at all of course, Captain Val, on a chair on one side of the table, and M. Victoire Jaquetanape on the other. Mrs. Val shook hands with him much in her usual way, but still with an air of importance in her face; the Frenchman was delighted to see M. Tudere, and the Honourable Val got up from his chair, said 'How do?' and then sat down again.

'I requested you to call, Mr. Tudor,' said Mrs. Val, opening her tale in a most ceremonious manner, 'because we all think it necessary to know somewhat more than has yet been told to us of the manner in which my daughter's money has been invested.'

Captain Val wiped his moustache with the middle finger of his right hand, by way of saying that he quite assented to his wife's proposition; and Victoire remarked that 'Madame was a leetle anxious, just a leetle anxious; not that anything could be wrong with M. Tudere, but because she was one excellent mamma.'

'I thought you knew, Mrs. Scott,' said Alaric, 'that your daughter's money is in the funds.'

'Then I may understand clearly that none of the amount so invested has been sold out or otherwise appropriated by you.' said Mrs. Val.

'Will you allow me to inquire what has given rise to these questions just at the present moment?' asked Alaric.

'Yes, certainly,' said Mrs. Val; 'rumours have reached my husband—rumours which, I am happy to say, I do not believe—that my daughter's money has been used for purposes of speculation.' Whereupon Captain Val again wiped his upper lip, but did not find it necessary to speak.

'May I venture to ask Captain Scott from what source such rumours have reached him!'

'Ah-ha-what source? d—— lies, very likely; d—— lies, I dare say; but people do talk—eh—you know,' so much the eloquent embryo member for Strathbogy vouchsafed.

'And therefore, Mr. Tudor, you mustn't be surprised that we should ask you this question.'

'It is one simple, simple question,' said Victoire, 'and if M. Tudere will say that it is all right, I, for myself, will be satisfied.' The amiable Victoire, to tell the truth, was still quite satisfied to leave his wife's income in Alaric's hands, and would not have been at all satisfied to remove it to the hands of his respected step-papa-in-law, or even his admired mamma-in-law.

'When I undertook this trust,' said Alaric, 'which I did with considerable hesitation, I certainly did not expect to be subjected to any such cross-examination as this. I consider such questions as insults, and therefore I shall refuse to answer them. You, Mrs. Scott, have of course a right to look after your daughter's interests, as has M. Jaquetanape to look after those of his wife; but I will not acknowledge that Captain Scott has any such right whatsoever, nor can I think that his conduct in this matter is disinterested;' and as he spoke he looked at Captain Val, but he might just as well have looked at the door; Captain Val only wiped his moustache with his finger once more. 'My answer to your inquiries, Mrs. Scott, is this—I shall not condescend to go into any details as to Madame Jaquetanape 's fortune with anyone but my co-trustee. I shall, however, on Saturday next, be ready to give up my trust to any other person who may be legally appointed to receive it, and will then produce all the property that has been entrusted to my keeping:' and so saying, Alaric got up and took his hat as though to depart.

'And do you mean to say, Mr. Tudor, that you will not answer my question?' said Mrs. Scott.

'I mean to say, most positively, that I will answer no questions,' said Alaric.

'Oh, confound, not do at all; d——,' said the captain. 'The girl's money all gone, and you won't answer questions!'

'No!' shouted Alaric, walking across the room till he closely confronted the captain. 'No—no—I will answer no questions that may be asked in your hearing. But that your wife's presence protects you, I would kick you down your own stairs before me.'

Captain Val retreated a step—he could retreat no more—and wiped his moustache with both hands at once. Mrs. Val screamed. Victoire took hold of the back of a chair, as though he thought it well that he should be armed in the general battle that was to ensue; and Alaric, without further speech, walked out of the room, and went away to his office.

'So you have given up Strathbogy?' said Sir Gregory to him, in the course of the day.

'I think I have,' said Alaric; 'considering all things, I believe it will be the best for me to do so.'

'Not a doubt of it,' said Sir Gregory—'not a doubt of it, my dear fellow;' and then Sir Gregory began to evince, by the cordiality of his official confidence, that he had fully taken Alaric back into his good graces. It was nothing to him that Strathbogy had given up Alaric instead of Alaric giving up Strathbogy. He was sufficiently pleased at knowing that the danger of his being supplanted by his own junior was over.

And then Alaric again went into the weary city, again made inquiries about his shares, and again returned to his office, and thence to his home.

But on his return to his office, he found lying on his table a note in Undy's handwriting, but not signed, in which he was informed that things would yet be well, if the required shares should be forthcoming on the following day.

He crumpled the note tight in his hand, and was about to fling it among the waste paper, but in a moment he thought better of it, and smoothing the paper straight, he folded it, and laid it carefully on his desk.

That day, on his visit into the city, he had found that the bridge shares had fallen to less than the value of their original purchase-money; and that evening he told Gertrude everything. The author does not dare to describe the telling.



CHAPTER XXXVII

TRIBULATION

We must now return for a short while to Surbiton Cottage. It was not so gay a place as it once had been; merry laughter was not so often heard among the shrubbery walks, nor was a boat to be seen so often glancing in and out between the lawn and the adjacent island. The Cottage had become a demure, staid abode, of which Captain Cuttwater was in general the most vivacious inmate; and yet there was soon to be marrying, and giving in marriage.

Linda's wedding-day had twice been fixed. That first-named had been postponed in consequence of the serious illness of Norman's elder brother. The life of that brother had been very different in its course from Harry's; it had been dissipated at college in riotous living, and had since been stained with debauchery during the career of his early manhood in London. The consequence had been that his health had been broken down, and he was now tottering to an early grave.

Cuthbert Norman was found to be so ill when the day first named for Linda's marriage approached, that it had been thought absolutely necessary to postpone the ceremony. What amount of consolation Mrs. Woodward might have received from the knowledge that her daughter, by this young man's decease, would become Mrs. Norman of Normansgrove, we need not inquire; but such consolation, if it existed at all, did not tend to dispel the feeling of sombre disappointment which such delay was sure to produce. The heir, however, rallied, and another day, early in August, was fixed.

Katie, the while, was still an invalid; and, as such, puzzled all the experience of that very experienced medical gentleman, who has the best aristocratic practice in the neighbourhood of Hampton Court. He, and the London physician, agreed that her lungs were not affected; but yet she would not get well. The colour would not come to her cheeks, the flesh would not return to her arms, nor the spirit of olden days shine forth in her eyes. She did not keep her bed, or confine herself to her room, but she went about the house with a slow, noiseless, gentle tread, so unlike the step of that Katie whom we once knew.

But that which was a mystery to the experienced medical gentleman, was no mystery to her mother. Mrs. Woodward well knew why her child was no longer rosy, plump, and debonnaire. As she watched her Katie move about so softly, as she saw her constant attempt to smile whenever her mother's eye was on her, that mother's heart almost gave way; she almost brought herself to own that she would rather see her darling the wife of an idle, ruined spendthrift, than watch her thus drifting away to an early grave. These days were by no means happy days for Mrs. Woodward.

When that July day was fixed for Linda's marriage, certain invitations were sent out to bid the family friends to the wedding. These calls were not so numerous as they had been when Gertrude became a bride. No Sir Gregory was to come down from town, no gallant speech-makers from London clubs were to be gathered there, to wake the echoes of the opposite shore with matrimonial wit. Mrs. Woodward could not bear that her daughter should be married altogether, as it were, in the dark; but for many considerations the guests were to be restricted in numbers, and the mirth was to be restrained and quiet.

When the list was made out, Katie saw it, and saw that Charley's name was not there.

'Mamma,' she said, touching her mother's arm in her sweet winning way, 'may not Charley come to Linda's wedding? You know how fond Harry is of him: would not Harry wish that he should be here?'

Mrs. Woodward's eyes immediately filled with tears, and she looked at her daughter, not knowing how to answer her. She had never spoken to Katie of her love; no word had ever passed between them on the subject which was now always nearest to the hearts of them both. Mrs. Woodward had much in her character, as a mother, that was excellent, nay, all but perfect; but she could not bring herself to question her own children as to the inward secrets of their bosoms. She knew not at once how to answer Katie's question; and so she looked up at her with wistful eyes, laden with tears.

'You may do so, mamma,' said Katie. Katie was already a braver woman than her mother. 'I think Harry would like it, and poor Charley will feel hurt at being left out; you may do it, mamma, if you like; it will not do any harm.'

Mrs. Woodward quite understood the nature of the promise conveyed in her daughter's assurance, and replied that Charley should be asked. He was asked, and promised, of course, to come. But when the wedding was postponed, when the other guests were put off, he also was informed that his attendance at Hampton was not immediately required; and so he still remained a stranger to the Cottage.

And then after a while another day was named, the guests, and Charley with them, were again invited, and Norman was again assured that he should be made happy. But, alas! his hopes were again delusive. News arrived at Surbiton Cottage which made it indispensable that the marriage should be again postponed, news worse than any which had ever yet been received there, news which stunned them all, and made it clear to them that this year was no time for marrying. Alaric had been arrested. Alaric, their own Gertrude's own husband, their son-in-law and brother-in-law, the proud, the high, the successful, the towering man of the world, Alaric had been arrested, and was to be tried for embezzling the money of his ward.

These fatal tidings were brought to Hampton by Harry Norman himself; how they were received we must now endeavour to tell.

But that it would be tedious we might describe the amazement with which that news was received at the Weights and Measures. Though the great men at the Weights were jealous of Alaric, they were not the less proud of him. They had watched him rise with a certain amount of displeasure, and yet they had no inconsiderable gratification in boasting that two of the Magi, the two working Magi of the Civil Service, had been produced by their own establishment. When therefore tidings reached them that Tudor had been summoned in a friendly way to Bow Street, that he had there passed a whole morning, and that the inquiry had ended in his temporary suspension from his official duties, and in his having to provide two bailsmen, each for L1,000, as security that he would on a certain day be forthcoming to stand his trial at the Old Bailey for defrauding his ward—when, I say, these tidings were carried from room to room at the Weights and Measures, the feelings of surprise were equalled by those of shame and disappointment.

No one knew who brought this news to the Weights and Measures. No one ever does know how such tidings fly; one of the junior clerks had heard it from a messenger, to whom it had been told downstairs; then another messenger, who had been across to the Treasury Chambers with an immediate report as to a projected change in the size of the authorized butter-firkin, heard the same thing, and so the news by degrees was confirmed.

But all this was not sufficient for Norman. As soon as the rumour reached him, he went off to Bow Street, and there learnt the actual truth as it has been above stated. Alaric was then there, and the magistrates had decided on requiring bail; he had, in fact, been committed.

It would be dreadful that the Woodwards should first hear all this from the lips of a stranger, and this reflection induced Norman at once to go to Hampton; but it was dreadful, also, to find himself burdened with the task of first telling such tidings. When he found himself knocking at the Cottage door he was still doubtful how he might best go through the work he had before him.

He found that he had a partial reprieve; but then it was so partial that it would have been much better for him to have had no such reprieve at all. Mrs. Woodward was at Sunbury with Linda, and no one was at home but Katie. What was he to do? was he to tell Katie? or was he to pretend that all was right, that no special business had brought him unexpectedly to Hampton?

'Oh, Harry, Linda will be so unhappy,' said Katie as soon as she saw him. 'They have gone to dine at Sunbury, and they won't be home till ten or eleven. Uncle Bat dined early with me, and he has gone to Hampton Court. Linda will be so unhappy. But, good gracious, Harry, is there anything the matter?'

'Mrs. Woodward has not heard from Gertrude to-day, has she?'

'No—not a word—Gertrude is not ill, is she? Oh, do tell me,' said Katie, who now knew that there was some misfortune to be told.

'No; Gertrude is not ill.'

'Is Alaric ill, then? Is there anything the matter with Alaric?'

'He is not ill,' said Norman,' but he is in some trouble. I came down as I thought your mother should be told.'

So much he said, but would say no more. In this he probably took the most unwise course that was open to him. He might have held his tongue altogether, and let Katie believe that love alone had brought him down, as it had done so often before; or he might have told her all, feeling sure that all must be told her before long. But he did neither; he left her in suspense, and the consequence was that before her mother's return she was very ill.

It was past eleven before the fly was heard in which Linda and her mother returned home. Katie had then gone upstairs, but not to bed. She had seated herself in the armchair in her mother's dressing-room, and sitting there waited till she should be told by her mother what had occurred. When the sound of the wheels caught her ears, she came to the door of the room and held it in her hand that she might learn what passed. She heard Linda's sudden and affectionate greeting; she heard Mrs. Woodward's expression of gratified surprise; and then she heard also Norman's solemn tone, by which, as was too clear, all joy, all gratification, was at once suppressed. Then she heard the dining- room door close, and she knew that he was telling his tale to Linda and her mother.

O the misery of that next hour! For an hour they remained there talking, and Katie knew nothing of what they were talking; she knew only that Norman had brought unhappiness to them all. A dozen different ideas passed across her mind. First she thought that Alaric was dismissed, then that he was dead; was it not possible that Harry had named Alaric's name to deceive her? might not this misfortune, whatever it was, be with Charley? might not he be dead? Oh! better so than the other. She knew, and said as much to herself over and over again; but she did not the less feel that his death must involve her own also.

At last the dining-room door opened, and she heard her mother's step on the stairs. Her heart beat so that she could hardly support herself. She did not get up, but sat quite quiet, waiting for the tidings which she knew that she should now hear. Her mother's face, when she entered the room, nearly drove her to despair; Mrs. Woodward had been crying, bitterly, violently, convulsively crying; and when one has reached the age of forty, the traces of such tears are not easily effaced even from a woman's cheek.

'Mamma, mamma, what is it? pray, pray tell me; oh! mamma, what is it?' said Katie, jumping up and rushing into her mother's arms.

'Oh! Katie,' said Mrs. Woodward, 'why are you not in bed? Oh! my darling, I wish you were in bed; I do so wish you were in bed—my child, my child!' and, seating herself in the nearest chair, Mrs. Woodward again gave herself up to uncontrolled weeping.

Then Linda came up with the copious tears still streaming down her face. She made no effort to control them; at her age tears are the easiest resource in time of grief. Norman had kept her back a moment to whisper one word of love, and she then followed her mother into the room.

Katie was now kneeling at her mother's feet. 'Linda,' she said, with more quietness than either of the others was able to assume, 'what has happened? what makes mamma so unhappy? Has anything happened to Alaric?' But Linda was in no state to tell anything.

'Do tell me, mamma,' said Katie; 'do tell me all at once. Has anything—anything happened to—to Charley?'

'Oh, it is worse than that, a thousand times worse than that!' said Mrs. Woodward, who, in the agony of her own grief, became for the instant ungenerous.

Katie's blood rushed back to her heart, and for a moment her own hand relaxed the hold which she had on that of her mother. She had never spoken of her love; for her mother's sake she had been silent; for her mother's sake she had determined to suffer and be silent—now, and ever! Well; she would bear this also. It was but for a moment she relaxed her hold; and then again she tightened her fingers round her mother's hand, and held it in a firmer grasp. 'It is Alaric, then?' she said.

'God forgive me,' said Mrs. Woodward, speaking through her sobs— 'God forgive me! I am a brokenhearted woman, and say I know not what. My Katie, my darling, my best of darlings—will you forgive me?'

'Oh, mamma,' said Katie, kissing her mother's hands, and her arms, and the very hem of her garment, 'oh, mamma, do not speak so. But I wish I knew what this sorrow is, so that I might share it with you; may I not be told, mamma? is it about Alaric?'

'Yes, Katie. Alaric is in trouble.'

'What trouble—is he ill?'

'No—he is not ill. It is about money.'

'Has he been arrested?' asked Katie, thinking of Charley's misfortune. 'Could not Harry get him out? Harry is so good; he would do anything, even for Alaric, when he is in trouble.'

'He will do everything for him that he can,' said Linda, through her tears.

'He has not been arrested,' said Mrs. Woodward; 'he is still at home; but he is in trouble about Miss Golightly's money—and—and he is to be tried.'

'Tried,' said Katie; 'tried like a criminal!'

Katie might well express herself as horrified. Yes, he had to be tried like a criminal; tried as pickpockets, housebreakers, and shoplifters are tried, and for a somewhat similar offence; with this difference, however, that pickpockets, housebreakers, and shoplifters, are seldom educated men, and are in general led on to crime by want. He was to be tried for the offence of making away with some of Miss Golightly's money for his own purposes. This was explained to Katie, with more or less perspicuity; and then Gertrude's mother and sisters lifted up their voices together and wept.

He might, it is true, be acquitted; they would none of them believe him to be guilty, though they all agreed that he had probably been imprudent; but then the public shame of the trial! the disgrace which must follow such an accusation! What a downfall was here! 'Oh, Gertrude! oh, Gertrude!' sobbed Mrs. Woodward; and indeed, at that time, it did not fare well with Gertrude.

It was very late before Mrs. Woodward and her daughters went to bed that night; and then Katie, though she did not specially complain, was very ill. She had lately received more than one wound, which was still unhealed; and now this additional blow, though she apparently bore it better than the others, altogether upset her. When the morning came, she complained of headache, and it was many days after that before she left her bed.

But Mrs. Woodward was up early. Indeed, she could hardly be said to have been in bed at all; for though she had lain down for an hour or two, she had not slept. Early in the morning she knocked at Harry's door, and begged him to come out to her. He was not long in obeying her summons, and soon joined her in the little breakfast parlour.

'Harry, said she, 'you must go and see Alaric.'

Harry's brow grew black. On the previous evening he had spoken of Alaric without bitterness, nay, almost with affection; of Gertrude he had spoken with the truest brotherly love; he had assured Mrs. Woodward that he would do all that was in his power for them; that he would spare neither his exertions nor his purse. He had a truer idea than she had of what might probably be the facts of the case, and was prepared, by all the means at his disposal, to help his sister-in-law, if such aid would help her. But he had not thought of seeing Alaric.

'I do not think it would do any good,' said he.

'Yes, Harry, it will; it will do the greatest good; whom else can I get to see him? who else can find out and let us know what really is required of us, what we ought to do? I would do it myself, but I could not understand it; and he would never trust us sufficiently to tell me all the truth.'

'We will make Charley go to him. He will tell everything to Charley, if he will to anyone.'

'We cannot trust Charley; he is so thoughtless, so imprudent. Besides, Harry, I cannot tell everything to Charley as I can to you. If there be any deficiency in this woman's fortune, of course it must be made good; and in that case I must raise the money. I could not arrange all this with Charley.'

'There cannot, I think, be very much wanting,' said Norman, who had hardly yet realized the idea that Alaric had actually used his ward's money for his own purposes. 'He has probably made some bad investment, or trusted persons that he should not have trusted. My small property is in the funds, and I can get the amount at a moment's notice. I do not think there will be any necessity to raise more money than that. At any rate, whatever happens, you must not touch your own income; think of Katie.'

'But, Harry—dear, good, generous Harry—you are so good, so generous! But, Harry, we need not talk of that now. You will see him, though, won't you?'

'It will do no good,' said Harry; 'we have no mutual trust in each other.'

'Do not be unforgiving, Harry, now that he requires forgiveness.'

'If he does require forgiveness, Mrs. Woodward, if it shall turn out that he has been guilty, God knows that I will forgive him. I trust this may not be the case; and it would be useless for me to thrust myself upon him now, when a few days may replace us again in our present relations to each other.'

'I don't understand you, Harry; why should there always be a quarrel between two brothers, between the husbands of two sisters? I know you mean to be kind, I know you are most kind, most generous; but why should you be so stern?'

'What I mean is this—if I find him in adversity, I shall be ready to offer him my hand; it will then be for him to say whether he will take it. But if the storm blow over, in such case I would rather that we should remain as we are.'

Norman talked of forgiveness, and accused himself of no want of charity in this respect. He had no idea that his own heart was still hard as the nether millstone against Alaric Tudor. But yet such was the truth. His money he could give; he could give also his time and mind, he could lend his best abilities to rescue his former friend and his own former love from misfortune. He could do this, and he thought therefore that he was forgiving; but there was no forgiveness in such assistance. There was generosity in it, for he was ready to part with his money; there was kindness of heart, for he was anxious to do good to his fellow- creature; but there were with these both pride and revenge. Alaric had out-topped him in everything, and it was sweet to Norman's pride that his hand should be the one to raise from his sudden fall the man who had soared so high above him. Alaric had injured him, and what revenge is so perfect as to repay gross injuries by great benefits? Is it not thus that we heap coals of fire on our enemies' heads? Not that Norman indulged in thoughts such as these; not that he resolved thus to gratify his pride, thus to indulge his revenge. He was unconscious of his own sin, but he was not the less a sinner.

'No,' said he, 'I will not see him myself; it will do no good.'

Mrs. Woodward found that it was useless to try to bend him. That, indeed, she knew from a long experience. It was then settled that she should go up to Gertrude that morning, travelling up to town together with Norman, and that when she had learned from her daughter, or from Alaric—if Alaric would talk to her about his concerns—what was really the truth of the matter, she should come to Norman's office, and tell him what it would be necessary for him to do.

And then the marriage was again put off. This, in itself, was a great misery, as young ladies who have just been married, or who may now be about to be married, will surely own. The words 'put off' are easily written, the necessity of such a 'put off' is easily arranged in the pages of a novel; an enforced delay of a month or two in an affair which so many folk willingly delay for so many years, sounds like a slight thing; but, nevertheless, a matrimonial 'put off' is, under any circumstances, a great grief. To have to counter-write those halcyon notes which have given glad promise of the coming event; to pack up and put out of sight, and, if possible, out of mind, the now odious finery with which the house has for the last weeks been strewed; to give the necessary information to the pastry-cook, from whose counter the sad tidings will be disseminated through all the neighbourhood; to annul the orders which have probably been given for rooms and horses for the happy pair; to live, during the coming interval, a mark for Pity's unpitying finger; to feel, and know, and hourly calculate, how many slips there may be between the disappointed lip and the still distant cup; all these things in themselves make up a great grief, which is hardly lightened by the knowledge that they have been caused by a still greater grief.

These things had Linda now to do, and the poor girl had none to help her in the doing of them. A few hurried words were spoken on that morning between her and Norman, and for the second time she set to work to put off her wedding. Katie, the meantime, lay sick in bed, and Mrs. Woodward had gone to London to learn the worst and to do the best in this dire affliction that had come upon them.



CHAPTER XXXVIII

ALARIC TUDOR TAKES A WALK

There is, undoubtedly, a propensity in human love to attach itself to excellence; but it has also, as undoubtedly, a propensity directly antagonistic to this, and which teaches it to put forth its strongest efforts in favour of inferiority. Watch any fair flock of children in which there may be one blighted bud, and you will see that that blighted one is the mother's darling. What filial affection is ever so strong as that evinced by a child for a parent in misfortune? Even among the rough, sympathies of schoolboys, the cripple, the sickly one, or the orphan without a home, will find the warmest friendship and a stretch of kindness. Love, that must bow and do reverence to superiority, can protect and foster inferiority; and what is so sweet as to be able to protect?

Gertrude's love for her husband had never been so strong as when she learnt that that love must now stand in the place of all other sympathies, of all other tenderness. Alaric told her of his crime, and in his bitterness he owned that he was no longer worthy of her love. She answered by opening her arms to him with more warmth than ever, and bidding him rest his weary head upon her breast. Had they not taken each other for better or for worse? had not their bargain been that they would be happy together if such should be their lot, or sad together if God should so will it?—and would she be the first to cry off from such a bargain?

It seldom happens that a woman's love is quenched by a man's crime. Women in this respect are more enduring than men; they have softer sympathies, and less acute, less selfish, appreciation of the misery of being joined to that which has been shamed. It was not many hours since Gertrude had boasted to herself of the honour and honesty of her lord, and tossed her head with defiant scorn when a breath of suspicion had been muttered against his name. Then she heard from his own lips the whole truth, learnt that that odious woman had only muttered what she soon would have a right to speak out openly, knew that fame and honour, high position and pride of life, were all gone; and then in that bitter hour she felt that she had never loved him as she did then.

He had done wrong, he had sinned grievously; but no sooner did she acknowledge so much than she acknowledged also that a man may sin and yet not be all sinful; that glory may be tarnished, and yet not utterly destroyed; that pride may get a fall, and yet live to rise again. He had sinned, and had repented; and now to her eyes he was again as pure as snow. Others would now doubt him, that must needs be the case; but she would never doubt him; no, not a whit the more in that he had once fallen. He should still be the cynosure of her eyes, the pride of her heart, the centre of her hopes. Marina said of her lord, when he came to her shattered in limb, from the hands of the torturer—

'I would not change My exiled, mangled, persecuted husband, Alive or dead, for prince or paladin, In story or in fable, with a world To back his suit.'

Gertrude spoke to herself in the same language. She would not have changed her Alaric, branded with infamy as he now was, or soon would be, for the proudest he that carried his head high among the proud ones of the earth. Such is woman's love; such is the love of which a man's heart is never capable!

Alaric's committal had taken place very much in the manner in which it was told at the Weights and Measures. He had received a note from one of the Bow Street magistrates, begging his attendance in the private room at the police-office. There he had passed nearly the whole of one day; and he was also obliged to pass nearly the whole of another in the same office. On this second day the proceedings were not private, and he was accompanied by his own solicitor.

It would be needless to describe how a plain case was, as usual, made obscure by the lawyers, how Acts of Parliament were consulted, how the magistrate doubted, how indignant Alaric's attorney became when it was suggested that some insignificant piece of evidence should be admitted, which, whether admitted or rejected, could have no real bearing on the case. In these respects this important examination was like other important examinations of the same kind, such as one sees in the newspapers whenever a man above the ordinary felon's rank becomes amenable to the outraged laws. It ended, however, in Alaric being committed, and giving bail to stand his trial in about a fortnight's time; and in his being assured by his attorney that he would most certainly be acquitted. That bit of paper on which he had made an entry that certain shares bought by him had been bought on behalf of his ward, would save him; so said the attorney: to which, however, Alaric answered not much. Could any acutest lawyer, let him be made of never so fine an assortment of forensic indignation, now whitewash his name and set him again right before the world? He, of course, communicated with Sir Gregory, and agreed to be suspended from his commissionership till the trial should be over. His two colleagues then became bail for him.

So much having been settled, he got into a cab with his attorney, and having dropped that gentleman on the road, he returned home. The excitement of the examination and the necessity for action had sustained him? but now—what was to sustain him now? How was he to get through the intervening fortnight, banished as he was from his office, from his club, and from all haunts of men? His attorney, who had other rogues to attend to besides him, made certain set appointments with him—and for the rest, he might sit at home and console himself as best he might with his own thoughts. 'Excelsior!' This was the pass to which 'Excelsior' had brought Sic itur ad astro!—Alas, his road had taken him hitherto in quite a different direction.

He sent for Charley, and when Charley came he made Gertrude explain to him what had happened. He had confessed his own fault once, to his own wife, and he could not bring himself to do it again. Charley was thunderstruck at the greatness of the ruin, but he offered what assistance he could give. Anything that he could do, he would. Alaric had sent for him for a purpose, and that purpose at any rate Charley could fulfil. He went into the city to ascertain what was now the price of the Limehouse bridge shares, and returned with the news that they were falling, falling, falling.

No one else called at Alaric's door that day. Mrs. Val, though she did not come there, by no means allowed her horses to be idle; she went about sedulously among her acquaintance, dropping tidings of her daughter's losses. 'They will have enough left to live upon, thank God,' said she; 'but did you ever hear of so barefaced, so iniquitous a robbery? Well, I am not cruel; but my own opinion is that he should certainly be hanged.'

To this Ugolina assented fully, adding, that she had been so shocked by the suddenness and horror of the news, as to have become perfectly incapacitated ever since for any high order of thought.

Lactimel, whose soft bosom could not endure the idea of putting an end to the life of a fellow-creature, suggested perpetual banishment to the penal colonies; perhaps Norfolk Island. 'And what will she do?' said Lactimel.

'Indeed I cannot guess,' said Ugolina; 'her education has been sadly deficient.'

None but Charley called on Alaric that day, and he found himself shut up alone with his wife and child. His own house seemed to him a prison. He did not dare to leave it; he did not dare to walk out and face the public as long as daylight continued; he was ashamed to show himself, and so he sat alone in his dining- room thinking, thinking, thinking. Do what he would, he could not get those shares out of his mind; they had entered like iron into his soul, as poison into his blood; they might still rise, they might yet become of vast value, might pay all his debts, and enable him to begin again. And then this had been a committee day; he had had no means of knowing how things had gone there, of learning the opinions of the members, of whispering to Mr. Piles, or hearing the law on the matter laid down by the heavy deep voice of the great Mr. Blocks. And so he went on thinking, thinking, thinking, but ever as though he had a clock-weight fixed to his heart and pulling at its strings. For, after all, what were the shares or the committee to him? Let the shares rise to ever so fabulous a value, let the Chancellor of the Exchequer be ever so complaisant in giving away his money, what avail would it be to him? what avail now? He must stand his trial for the crime of which he had been guilty.

With the utmost patience Gertrude endeavoured to soothe him, and to bring his mind into some temper in which it could employ itself. She brought him their baby, thinking that he would play with his child, but all that he said was—'My poor boy! I have ruined him already;' and then turning away from the infant, he thrust his hands deep into his trousers-pockets, and went on calculating about the shares.

When the sun had well set, and the daylight had, at last, dwindled out, he took up his hat and wandered out among the new streets and rows of houses which lay between his own house and the Western Railway. He got into a district in which he had never been before, and as he walked about here, he thought of the fate of other such swindlers as himself;—yes, though he did not speak the word, he pronounced it as plainly, and as often, in the utterance of his mind, as though it was being rung out to him from every steeple in London; he thought of the fate of such swindlers as himself; how one had been found dead in the streets, poisoned by himself; how another, after facing the cleverest lawyers in the land, was now dying in a felon's prison; how a third had vainly endeavoured to fly from justice by aid of wigs, false whiskers, painted furrows, and other disguises. Should he try to escape also, and avoid the ignominy of a trial? He knew it would be in vain; he knew that, at this moment, he was dogged at the distance of some thirty yards by an amiable policeman in mufti, placed to watch his motions by his two kind bailsmen, who preferred this small expense to the risk of losing a thousand pounds a-piece.

As he turned short round a corner, into the main road leading from the railway station to Bayswater, he came close upon a man who was walking quickly in the opposite direction, and found himself face to face with Undy Scott. How on earth should Undy Scott have come out there to Bayswater, at that hour of the night, he, the constant denizen of clubs, the well-known frequenter of Pall Mall, the member for the Tillietudlem burghs, whose every hour was occupied in the looking after things political, or things commercial? Who could have expected him in a back road at Bayswater? There, however, he was, and Alaric, before he knew of his presence, had almost stumbled against him.

'Scott!' said Alaric, starting back.

'Hallo, Tudor, what the deuce brings you here? but I suppose you'll ask me the same question?' said Undy.

Alaric Tudor could not restrain himself. 'You scoundrel,' said he, seizing Undy by the collar; 'you utterly unmitigated scoundrel! You premeditated, wilful villain!' and he held Undy as though he intended to choke him.

But Undy Scott was not a man to be thus roughly handled with impunity; and in completing the education which he had received, the use of his fists had not been overlooked. He let out with his right hand, and struck Alaric twice with considerable force on the side of his jaw, so that the teeth rattled in his mouth.

But Alaric, at the moment, hardly felt it. 'You have brought me and mine to ruin,' said he; 'you have done it purposely, like a fiend. But, low as I have fallen, I would not change places with you for all that the earth holds. I have been a villain; but such villany as yours—ugh—' and so saying, he flung his enemy from him, and Undy, tottering back, saved himself against the wall.

In a continued personal contest between the two men, Undy would probably have had the best of it, for he would certainly have been the cooler of the two, and was also the more skilful in such warfare; but he felt in a moment that he could gain nothing by thrashing Tudor, whereas he might damage himself materially by having his name brought forward at the present moment in connexion with that of his old friend.

'You reprobate!' said he, preparing to pass on; 'it has been my misfortune to know you, and one cannot touch pitch and not be defiled. But, thank God, you'll come by your deserts now. If you will take my advice you'll hang yourself;' and so they parted.

The amiable policeman in mufti remained at a convenient distance during this little interview, having no special mission to keep the peace, pending his present employment; but, as he passed by, he peered into Undy's face, and recognized the honourable member for the Tillietudlem burghs. A really sharp policeman knows every one of any note in London. It might, perhaps, be useful that evidence should be given at the forthcoming trial of the little contest which we have described. If so, our friend in mufti was prepared to give it.

On the following morning, at about eleven, a cab drove up to the door, and Alaric, standing at the dining-room window, saw Mrs. Woodward get out of it.

'There's your mother,' said Alaric to his wife. 'I will not see her—let her go up to the drawing-room.'

'Oh! Alaric, will you not see mamma?'

'How can I, with my face swollen as it is now? Besides, what would be the good? What can I say to her? I know well enough what she has to say to me, without listening to it.'

'Dear Alaric, mamma will say nothing to you that is not kind; do see her, for my sake, Alaric.'

But misery had not made him docile. He merely turned from her, and shook his head impatiently. Gertrude then ran out to welcome her mother, who was in the hall.

And what a welcoming it was! 'Come upstairs, mamma, come into the drawing-room,' said Gertrude, who would not stop even to kiss her mother till they found themselves secured from the servants' eyes. She knew that one word of tenderness would bring her to the ground.

'Mamma, mamma!' she almost shrieked, and throwing herself into her mother's arms wept convulsively. Mrs. Woodward wanted no more words to tell her that Alaric had been guilty.

'But, Gertrude, how much is it?' whispered the mother, as, after a few moments of passionate grief, they sat holding each other's hands on the sofa. 'How much money is wanting? Can we not make it up? If it be all paid before the day of trial, will not that do? will not that prevent it?'

Gertrude could not say. She knew that L10,000 had been abstracted. Mrs. Woodward groaned as she heard the sum named. But then there were those shares, which had not long since been worth much more than half that sum, which must still be worth a large part of it.

'But we must know, dearest, before Harry can do anything,' said Mrs. Woodward.

Gertrude blushed crimson when Harry Norman's name was mentioned. And had it come to that—that they must look to him for aid?

'Can you not ask him, love?' said Mrs. Woodward. 'I saw him in the dining-room; go and ask him; when he knows that we are doing our best for him, surely he will help us.'

Gertrude, with a heavy heart, went down on her message, and did not return for fifteen or twenty minutes. It may easily be conceived that Norman's name was not mentioned between her and her husband, but she made him understand that an effort would be made for him if only the truth could be ascertained.

'It will be of no use,' said he.

'Don't say so, Alaric; we cannot tell what may be of use. But at any rate it will be weight off your heart to know that this money has been paid. It is that which overpowers you now, and not your own misfortune.'

At last he suffered her to lead him, and she put down on paper such figures as he dictated to her. It was, however, impossible to say what was the actual deficiency; that must depend upon the present value of the shares; these he said he was prepared to give over to his own attorney, if it was thought that by so doing he should be taking the best steps towards repairing the evil he had done; and then he began calculating how much the shares might possibly be worth, and pointing out under what circumstances they should be sold, and under what again they should be overheld till the market had improved. All this was worse than Greek to Gertrude; but she collected what facts she could, and then returned to her mother.

And they discussed the matter with all the wit and all the volubility which women have on such occasions. Paper was brought forth, and accounts were made out between them, not such as would please the eyes of a Civil Service Examiner, but yet accurate in their way. How they worked and racked their brains, and strained their women's nerves in planning how justice might be defeated, and the dishonesty of the loved one covered from shame! Uncle Bat was ready with his share. He had received such explanation as Mrs. Woodward had been able to give, and though when he first heard the news he had spoken severely of Alaric, still his money should be forthcoming for the service of the family. He could produce some fifteen hundred pounds; and would if needs be that he should do so. Then Harry—but the pen fell from Gertrude's fingers as she essayed to write down Harry Norman's contribution to the relief of her husband's misery.

'Remember, Gertrude, love, in how short a time he will be your brother.'

'But when will it be, mamma? Is it to be on Thursday, as we had planned? Of course, mamma, I cannot be there.'

And then there was a break in their accounts, and Mrs. Woodward explained to Gertrude that they had all thought it better to postpone Linda's marriage till after the trial; and this, of course was the source of fresh grief. When men such as Alaric Tudor stoop to dishonesty, the penalties of detection are not confined to their own hearthstone. The higher are the branches of the tree and the wider, the greater will be the extent of earth which its fall will disturb.

Gertrude's pen, however, again went to work. The shares were put down at L5,000. 'If they can only be sold for so much, I think we may manage it,' said Mrs. Woodward; 'I am sure that Harry can get the remainder—indeed he said he could have more than that.'

'And what will Linda do?'

'Linda will never want it, love; and if she did, what of that? would she not give all she has for you?'

And then Mrs. Woodward went her way to Norman's office, without having spoken to Alaric. 'You will come again soon, mamma,' said Gertrude. Mrs. Woodward promised that she would.

'And, mamma,' and she whispered close into her mother's ear, as she made her next request; 'and, mamma, you will be with me on that day?'

We need not follow Norman in his efforts to have her full fortune restored to Madame Jaquetanape. He was daily in connexion with Alaric's lawyer, and returned sometimes with hope and sometimes without it. Mrs. Val's lawyer would receive no overtures towards a withdrawal of the charge, or even towards any mitigation in their proceedings, unless the agent coming forward on behalf of the lady's late trustee, did so with the full sum of L20,000 in his hands.

We need not follow Charley, who was everyday with Alaric, and who was, unknown to Alaric, an agent between him and Norman. 'Well, Charley, what are they doing to-day?' was Alaric's constant question to him, even up to the very eve of his trial.

If any spirit ever walks it must be that of the stockjobber, for how can such a one rest in its grave without knowing what shares are doing?



CHAPTER XXXIX

THE LAST BREAKFAST

And that day was not long in coming; indeed, it came with terrible alacrity; much too quickly for Gertrude, much too quickly for Norman; and much too quickly for Alaric's lawyer. To Alaric only did the time pass slowly, for he found himself utterly without employment.

Norman and Uncle Bat between them had raised something about L6,000; but when the day came on which they were prepared to dispose of the shares, the Limehouse bridge was found to be worth nothing. They were, as the broker had said, ticklish stock; so ticklish that no one would have them at any price. When Undy, together with his agent from Tillietudlem, went into the market about the same time to dispose of theirs, they were equally unsuccessful. How the agent looked and spoke and felt may be imagined; for the agent had made large advances, and had no other security; but Undy had borne such looks and speeches before, and merely said that it was very odd—extremely odd; he had been greatly deceived by Mr. Piles. Mr. Piles also said it was very odd; but he did not appear to be nearly so much annoyed as the agent from Tillietudlem; and it was whispered that, queer as things now looked, Messrs. Blocks, Piles, and Cofferdam, had not made a bad thing of the bridge.

Overture after overture was made to the lawyer employed by Mrs. Val's party. Norman first offered the L6,000 and the shares; then when the shares were utterly rejected by the share-buying world, he offered to make himself personally responsible for the remainder of the debt, and to bind himself by bond to pay it within six months. At first these propositions were listened to, and Alaric's friends were led to believe that the matter would be handled in such a way that the prosecution would fall to the ground. But at last all composition was refused. The adverse attorney declared, first, that he was not able to accept any money payment short of the full amount with interest, and then he averred, that as criminal proceedings had been taken they could not now be stayed. Whether or no Alaric's night attack had anything to do with this, whether Undy had been the means of instigating this rigid adherence to justice, we are not prepared to say.

That day for which Gertrude had prayed her mother's assistance came all too soon. They had become at last aware that the trial must go on. Charley was with them on the last evening, and completed their despair by telling them that their attorney had resolved to make no further efforts at a compromise.

Perhaps the most painful feeling to Gertrude through the whole of the last fortnight had been the total prostration of her husband's energy, and almost of his intellect; he seemed to have lost the power of judging for himself, and of thinking and deciding what conduct would be best for him in his present condition. He who had been so energetic, so full of life, so ready for all emergencies, so clever at devices, so able to manage not only for himself but for his friends, he was, as it were, paralysed and unmanned. He sat from morning to night looking at the empty fire-grate, and hardly ventured to speak of the ordeal that he had to undergo.

His lawyer was to call for him on the morning of the trial, and Mrs. Woodward was to be at the house soon after he had left it. He had not yet seen her since the inquiry had commenced, and it was very plain that he did not wish to do so. Mrs. Woodward was to be there and to remain till his fate had been decided, and then—Not a word had yet been said as to the chance of his not returning; but Mrs. Woodward was aware that he would probably be unable to do so, and felt, that if such should be the case, she could not leave her daughter alone.

And so Alaric and his wife sat down to breakfast on that last morning. She had brought their boy down; but as she perceived that the child's presence did not please his father, he had been sent back to the nursery, and they were alone. She poured out his tea for him, put bread upon his plate, and then sat down close beside him, endeavouring to persuade him to eat. She had never yet found fault with him, she had never even ventured to give him counsel, but now she longed to entreat him to collect himself and take a man's part in the coming trial. He sat in the seat prepared for him, but, instead of eating, he thrust his hands after his accustomed manner into his pockets and sat glowering at the teacups.

'Come, Alaric, won't you eat your breakfast?' said she.

'No; breakfast! no-how can I eat now? how can you think that I could eat at such a time as this? Do you take yours; never mind me.'

'But, dearest, you will be faint if you do not eat; think what you have to go through; remember how many eyes will be on you to- day.'

He shuddered violently as she spoke, and motioned to her with his hand not to go on with what she was saying.

'I know, I know,' said she passionately, 'dearest, dearest love— I know how dreadful it is; would that I could bear it for you! would that I could!'

He turned away his head, for a tear was in his eye. It was the first that had come to his assistance since this sorrow had come upon him.

'Don't turn from me, dearest Alaric; do not turn from me now at our last moments. To me at least you are the same noble Alaric that you ever were.'

'Noble!' said he, with all the self-scorn which he so truly felt.

'To me you are, now as ever; but, Alaric, I do so fear that you will want strength, physical strength, you know, to go through all this. I would have you bear yourself like a man before them all.'

'It will be but little matter,' said he.

'It will be matter. It will be matter to me. My darling, darling husband, rouse yourself,' and she knelt before his knees and prayed to him; 'for my sake do it; eat and drink that you may have the power of a man when all the world is looking at you. If God forgives us our sins, surely we should so carry ourselves that men may not be ashamed to do so.'

He did not answer her, but he turned to the table and broke the bread, and put his lips to the cup. And then she gave him food as she would give it to a child, and he with a child's obedience ate and drank what was put before him. As he did so, every now and again a single tear forced itself beneath his eyelid and trickled down his face, and in some degree Gertrude was comforted.

He had hardly finished his enforced breakfast when the cab and the lawyer came to the door. The learned gentleman had the good taste not to come in, and so the servant told them that Mr. Gitemthruet was there.

'Say that your master will be with him in a minute,' said Gertrude, quite coolly; and then the room door was again closed, and the husband and wife had now to say adieu.

Alaric rose from his chair and made a faint attempt to smile. 'Well, Gertrude,' said he, 'it has come at last.'

She rushed into his embrace, and throwing her arms around him, buried her face upon his breast. 'Alaric, Alaric, my husband! my love, my best, my own, my only love!'

'I cannot say much now, Gertrude, but I know how good you are; you will come and see me, if they will let you, won't you?'

'See you!' said she, starting back, but still holding him and looking up earnestly into his face. 'See you!' and then she poured out her love with all the passion of a Ruth: '"Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge.... Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried; the Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me." See you, Alaric; oh, it cannot be that they will hinder the wife from being with her husband. But, Alaric,' she went on, 'do not droop now, love—will you?'

'I cannot brazen it out,' said he. 'I know too well what it is that I have done.'

'No, not that, Alaric; I would not have that. But remember, all is not over, whatever they may do. Ah, how little will really be over, whatever they can do! You have repented, have you not, Alaric?'

'I think so, I hope so,' said Alaric, with his eyes upon the ground.

'You have repented, and are right before God; do not fear then what man can do to you. I would not have you brazen, Alaric; but be manly, be collected, be your own self, the man that I have loved, the man that I do now love so well, better, better than ever;' and she threw herself on him and kissed him and clung to him, and stroked his hair and put her hand upon his face, and then holding him from her, looked up to him as though he were a hero whom she all but worshipped.

'Gertrude, Gertrude—that I should have brought you to this!'

'Never mind,' said she; 'we will win through it yet—we will yet be happy together, far, far away from here—remember that—let that support you through all. And now, Alaric, you will come up for one moment and kiss him before you go.'

'The man will be impatient.'

'Never mind; let him be impatient-you shall not go away without blessing your boy; come up, Alaric.' And she took him by the hand and led him like a child into the nursery.

'Where is the nurse? bring him here—papa is going away—Alley, boy, give papa a big kiss.'

Alaric, for the first time for the fortnight, took the little fellow into his arms and kissed him. 'God bless you, my bairn,' said he, 'and grant that all this may never be visited against you, here or hereafter!'

'And now go,' said Gertrude, as they descended the stairs together, 'and may God in His mercy watch over and protect you and give you back to me! And, Alaric, wherever you are I will be close to you, remember that. I will be quite, quite close to you. Now, one kiss—oh, dearest, dearest Alaric—there—there—now go.' And so he went, and Gertrude shutting herself into her room threw herself on to the bed, and wept aloud.



CHAPTER XL

MR. CHAFFANBRASS

We must now follow Alaric to his trial. He was, of course, much too soon at court. All people always are, who are brought to the court perforce, criminals for instance, and witnesses, and other such-like unfortunate wretches; whereas many of those who only go there to earn their bread are very often as much too late. He was to be tried at the Old Bailey. As I have never seen the place, and as so many others have seen it, I will not attempt to describe it. Here Mr. Gitemthruet was quite at home; he hustled and jostled, elbowed and ordered, as though he were the second great man of the place, and the client whom he was to defend was the first. In this latter opinion he was certainly right. Alaric was the hero of the day, and people made way for him as though he had won a victory in India, and was going to receive the freedom of the city in a box. As he passed by, a gleam of light fell on him from a window, and at the instant three different artists had him photographed, daguerreotyped, and bedevilled; four graphic members of the public press took down the details of his hat, whiskers, coat, trousers, and boots; and the sub-editor of the Daily Delight observed that 'there was a slight tremor in the first footstep which he took within the precincts of the prison, but in every other respect his demeanour was dignified and his presence manly; he had light-brown gloves, one of which was on his left hand, but the other was allowed to swing from his fingers. The court was extremely crowded, and some fair ladies appeared there to grace its customarily ungracious walls. On the bench we observed Lord Killtime, Sir Gregory Hardlines, and Mr. Whip Vigil. Mr. Undecimus Scott, who had been summoned as a witness by the prisoner, was also accommodated by the sheriffs with a seat.' Such was the opening paragraph of the seven columns which were devoted by the Daily Delight to the all-absorbing subject.

But Mr. Gitemthruet made his way through artists, reporters, and the agitated crowd with that happy air of command which can so easily be assumed by men at a moment's notice, when they feel themselves to be for that moment of importance. 'Come this way, Mr. Tudor; follow me and we will get on without any trouble; just follow me close,' said Mr. Gitemthruet to his client, in a whisper which was audible to not a few. Tudor, who was essaying, and not altogether unsuccessfully, to bear the public gaze undismayed, did as he was bid, and followed Mr. Gitemthruet.

'Now,' said the attorney, 'we'll sit here—Mr. Chaffanbrass will be close to us, there; so that I can touch him up as we go along; of course, you know, you can make any suggestion, only you must do it through me. Here's his lordship; uncommon well he looks, don't he? You'd hardly believe him to be seventy-seven, but he's not a day less, if he isn't any more; and he has as much work in him yet as you or I, pretty nearly. If you want to insure a man's life, Mr. Tudor, put him on the bench; then he'll never die. We lawyers are not like bishops, who are always for giving up, and going out on a pension.'

But Alaric was not at the moment inclined to meditate much on the long years of judges. He was thinking, or perhaps trying to think, whether it would not be better for him to save this crowd that was now gathered together all further trouble, and plead guilty at once. He knew he was guilty, he could not understand that it was possible that any juryman should have a doubt about it; he had taken the money that did not belong to him; that would be made quite clear; he had taken it, and had not repaid it; there was the absolute corpus delicti in court, in the shape of a deficiency of some thousands of pounds. What possible doubt would there be in the breast of anyone as to his guilt? Why should he vex his own soul by making himself for a livelong day the gazing-stock for the multitude? Why should he trouble all those wigged counsellors, when one word from him would set all at rest?

'Mr. Gitemthruet, I think I'll plead guilty,' said he.

'Plead what!' said Mr. Gitemthruet, turning round upon his client with a sharp, angry look. It was the first time that his attorney had shown any sign of disgust, displeasure, or even disapprobation since he had taken Alaric's matter in hand. 'Plead what! Ah, you're joking, I know; upon my soul you gave me a start.'

Alaric endeavoured to explain to him that he was not joking, nor in a mood to joke; but that he really thought the least vexatious course would be for him to plead guilty.

'Then I tell you it would be the most vexatious proceeding ever I heard of in all my practice. But you are in my hands, Mr. Tudor, and you can't do it. You have done me the honour to come to me, and now you must be ruled by me. Plead guilty! Why, with such a case as you have got, you would disgrace yourself for ever if you did so. Think of your friends, Mr. Tudor, if you won't think of me or of yourself.'

His lawyer's eloquence converted him, and he resolved that he would run his chance. During this time all manner of little legal preliminaries had been going on; and now the court was ready for business; the jury were in their box, the court-keeper cried silence, and Mr. Gitemthruet was busy among his papers with frantic energy. But nothing was yet seen of the great Mr. Chaffanbrass.

'I believe we may go on with the trial for breach of trust,' said the judge. 'I do not know why we are waiting.'

Then up and spoke Mr. Younglad, who was Alaric's junior counsel. Mr. Younglad was a promising common-law barrister, now commencing his career, of whom his friends were beginning to hope that he might, if he kept his shoulders well to the collar, at some distant period make a living out of his profession. He was between forty and forty-five years of age, and had already overcome the natural diffidence of youth in addressing a learned bench and a crowded court.

'My lud,' said Younglad, 'my learned friend, Mr. Chaffanbrass, who leads for the prisoner, is not yet in court. Perhaps, my lud, on behalf of my client, I may ask for a few moments' delay.'

'And if Mr. Chaffanbrass has undertaken to lead for the prisoner, why is he not in court?' said the judge, looking as though he had uttered a poser which must altogether settle Mr. Younglad's business.

But Mr. Younglad had not been sitting, and walking and listening, let alone talking occasionally, in criminal courts, for the last twenty years, to be settled so easily.

'My lud, if your ludship will indulge me with five minutes' delay—we will not ask more than five minutes—your ludship knows, no one better, the very onerous duties—'

'When I was at the bar I took no briefs to which I could not attend,' said the judge.

'I am sure you did not, my lud; and my learned friend, should he ever sit in your ludship's seat, will be able to say as much for himself, when at some future time he may be—; but, my lud, Mr. Chaffanbrass is now in court.' And as he spoke, Mr. Chaffanbrass, carrying in his hand a huge old blue bag, which, as he entered, he took from his clerk's hands, and bearing on the top of his head a wig that apparently had not been dressed for the last ten years, made his way in among the barristers, caring little on whose toes he trod, whose papers he upset, or whom he elbowed on his road. Mr. Chaffanbrass was the cock of this dunghill, and well he knew how to make his crowing heard there.

'And now, pray, let us lose no more time,' said the judge.

'My lord, if time has been lost through me, I am very sorry; but if your lordship's horse had fallen down in the street as mine did just now——'

'My horse never falls down in the street, Mr. Chaffanbrass.'

'Some beasts, my lord, can always keep their legs under them, and others can't; and men are pretty much in the same condition. I hope the former may be the case with your lordship and your lordship's cob for many years.' The judge, knowing of old that nothing could prevent Mr. Chaffanbrass from having the last word, now held his peace, and the trial began.

There are not now too many pages left to us for the completion of our tale; but, nevertheless, we must say a few words about Mr. Chaffanbrass. He was one of an order of barristers by no means yet extinct, but of whom it may be said that their peculiarities are somewhat less often seen than they were when Mr. Chaffanbrass was in his prime. He confined his practice almost entirely to one class of work, the defence, namely, of culprits arraigned for heavy crimes, and in this he was, if not unrivalled, at least unequalled. Rivals he had, who, thick as the skins of such men may be presumed to be, not unfrequently writhed beneath the lashes which his tongue could inflict. To such a perfection had he carried his skill and power of fence, so certain was he in attack, so invulnerable when attacked, that few men cared to come within the reach of his forensic flail. To the old stagers who were generally opposed to him, the gentlemen who conducted prosecutions on the part of the Crown, and customarily spent their time and skill in trying to hang those marauders on the public safety whom it was the special business of Mr. Chaffanbrass to preserve unhung, to these he was, if not civil, at least forbearing; but when any barrister, who was comparatively a stranger to him, ventured to oppose him, there was no measure to his impudent sarcasm and offensive sneers.

Those, however, who most dreaded Mr. Chaffanbrass, and who had most occasion to do so, were the witnesses. A rival lawyer could find a protection on the bench when his powers of endurance were tried too far; but a witness in a court of law has no protection. He comes there unfeed, without hope of guerdon, to give such assistance to the State in repressing crime and assisting justice as his knowledge in this particular case may enable him to afford; and justice, in order to ascertain whether his testimony be true, finds it necessary to subject him to torture. One would naturally imagine that an undisturbed thread of clear evidence would be best obtained from a man whose position was made easy and whose mind was not harassed; but this is not the fact: to turn a witness to good account, he must be badgered this way and that till he is nearly mad; he must be made a laughingstock for the court; his very truths must be turned into falsehoods, so that he may be falsely shamed; he must be accused of all manner of villany, threatened with all manner of punishment; he must be made to feel that he has no friend near him, that the world is all against him; he must be confounded till he forget his right hand from his left, till his mind be turned into chaos, and his heart into water; and then let him give his evidence. What will fall from his lips when in this wretched collapse must be of special value, for the best talents of practised forensic heroes are daily used to bring it about; and no member of the Humane Society interferes to protect the wretch. Some sorts of torture are, as it were, tacitly allowed even among humane people. Eels are skinned alive, and witnesses are sacrificed, and no one's blood curdles at the sight, no soft heart is sickened at the cruelty.

To apply the thumbscrew, the boot, and the rack to the victim before him was the work of Mr. Chaffanbrass's life. And it may be said of him that the labour he delighted in physicked pain. He was as little averse to this toil as the cat is to that of catching mice. And, indeed, he was not unlike a cat in his method of proceeding; for he would, as it were, hold his prey for a while between his paws, and pat him with gentle taps before he tore him. He would ask a few civil little questions in his softest voice, glaring out of his wicked old eye as he did so at those around him, and then, when he had his mouse well in hand, out would come his envenomed claw, and the wretched animal would feel the fatal wound in his tenderest part.

Mankind in general take pleasure in cruelty, though those who are civilized abstain from it on principle. On the whole Mr. Chaffanbrass is popular at the Old Bailey. Men congregate to hear him turn a witness inside out, and chuckle with an inward pleasure at the success of his cruelty. This Mr. Chaffanbrass knows, and, like an actor who is kept up to his high mark by the necessity of maintaining his character, he never allows himself to grow dull over his work. Therefore Mr. Chaffanbrass bullies when it is quite unnecessary that he should bully; it is a labour of love; and though he is now old, and stiff in his joints, though ease would be dear to him, though like a gladiator satiated with blood, he would as regards himself be so pleased to sheathe his sword, yet he never spares himself. He never spares himself, and he never spares his victim.

As a lawyer, in the broad and high sense of the word, it may be presumed that Mr. Chaffanbrass knows little or nothing. He has, indeed, no occasion for such knowledge. His business is to perplex a witness and bamboozle a jury, and in doing that he is generally successful. He seldom cares for carrying the judge with him: such tactics, indeed, as his are not likely to tell upon a judge. That which he loves is, that a judge should charge against him, and a jury give a verdict in his favour. When he achieves that he feels that he has earned his money. Let others, the young lads and spooneys of his profession, undertake the milk-and-water work of defending injured innocence; it is all but an insult to his practised ingenuity to invite his assistance to such tasteless business. Give him a case in which he has all the world against him; Justice with her sword raised high to strike; Truth with open mouth and speaking eyes to tell the bloody tale; outraged humanity shrieking for punishment; a case from which Mercy herself, with averted eyes, has loathing turned and bade her sterner sister do her work; give him such a case as this, and then you will see Mr. Chaffanbrass in his glory. Let him, by the use of his high art, rescue from the gallows and turn loose upon the world the wretch whose hands are reeking with the blood of father, mother, wife, and brother, and you may see Mr. Chaffanbrass, elated with conscious worth, rub his happy hands with infinite complacency. Then will his ambition be satisfied, and he will feel that in the verdict of the jury he has received the honour due to his genius. He will have succeeded in turning black into white, in washing the blackamoor, in dressing in the fair robe of innocence the foulest, filthiest wretch of his day; and as he returns to his home, he will be proudly conscious that he is no little man.

In person, however, Mr. Chaffanbrass is a little man, and a very dirty little man. He has all manner of nasty tricks about him, which make him a disagreeable neighbour to barristers sitting near to him. He is profuse with snuff, and very generous with his handkerchief. He is always at work upon his teeth, which do not do much credit to his industry. His wig is never at ease upon his head, but is poked about by him, sometimes over one ear, sometimes over the other, now on the back of his head, and then on his nose; and it is impossible to say in which guise he looks most cruel, most sharp, and most intolerable. His linen is never clean, his hands never washed, and his clothes apparently never new. He is about five feet six in height, and even with that stoops greatly. His custom is to lean forward, resting with both hands on the sort of desk before him, and then to fix his small brown basilisk eye on the victim in the box before him. In this position he will remain unmoved by the hour together, unless the elevation and fall of his thick eyebrows and the partial closing of his wicked eyes can be called motion. But his tongue! that moves; there is the weapon which he knows how to use!

Such is Mr. Chaffanbrass in public life; and those who only know him in public life can hardly believe that at home he is one of the most easy, good-tempered, amiable old gentlemen that ever was pooh-poohed by his grown-up daughters, and occasionally told to keep himself quiet in a corner. Such, however, is his private character. Not that he is a fool in his own house; Mr. Chaffanbrass can never be a fool; but he is so essentially good-natured, so devoid of any feeling of domestic tyranny, so placid in his domesticities, that he chooses to be ruled by his own children. But in his own way he is fond of hospitality; he delights in a cosy glass of old port with an old friend in whose company he may be allowed to sit in his old coat and old slippers. He delights also in his books, in his daughters' music, and in three or four live pet dogs, and birds, and squirrels, whom morning and night he feeds with his own hands. He is charitable, too, and subscribes largely to hospitals founded for the relief of the suffering poor.

Such was Mr. Chaffanbrass, who had been selected by the astute Mr. Gitemthruet to act as leading counsel on behalf of Alaric. If any human wisdom could effect the escape of a client in such jeopardy, the wisdom of Mr. Chaffanbrass would be likely to do it; but, in truth, the evidence was so strong against him, that even this Newgate hero almost feared the result.

I will not try the patience of anyone by stating in detail all the circumstances of the trial. In doing so I should only copy, or, at any rate, might copy, the proceedings at some of those modern causes celebres with which all those who love such subjects are familiar. And why should I force such matters on those who do not love them? The usual opening speech was made by the chief man on the prosecuting side, who, in the usual manner, declared 'that his only object was justice; that his heart bled within him to see a man of such acknowledged public utility as Mr. Tudor in such a position; that he sincerely hoped that the jury might find it possible to acquit him, but that—' And then went into his 'but' with so much venom that it was clearly discernible to all, that in spite of his protestations, his heart was set upon a conviction.