Windyridge

by W. Riley

CHAPTER XX

THE CYNIC'S RENUNCIATION

Excitements tread upon each other's heels. After Barjona, the Cynic. He appeared unexpectedly on Monday morning, and I took the long-promised photographs, which have turned out very badly; why, I don't know. He was not in his Sunday best, so the fault did not lie there; and his expression was all right, but I could not catch it on the plate, try as I might. He was very much amused, and accused me of looking haggard over the business, which was absurd. Every photographer is anxious to secure a satisfactory result, or if he is not he does not deserve to succeed. I think really I was afraid of his waxing sarcastic over my attempts at portraying his features. He is not a handsome man, as I may have remarked before, but he is not the sort that passes unnoticed, and I wanted to secure on the plate the something that makes people look twice at him; and I failed. I took several negatives, but none of them was half as nice as the original; and yet we are told that photography flatters!

He professed an indifference which I am afraid he felt, and Mother Hubbard assured him over the dinner-table that there was not the slightest ground for anxiety. It will be a long time, I fear, before he gets the proofs. He stayed to dinner on his own invitation, and Mother Hubbard prepared one of her extra special Yorkshire puddings in his honour. Fortunately, we had not cooked the beef on the Sunday, or he would have had to be content with the remains of the cold joint; and though I should not have minded, I know Mother Hubbard would have been greatly distressed.

He spoke quite naturally about Rose, and appeared to have enjoyed her company immensely, but he had not seen her again up to then.

When the meal was over we went out into the garden and sat down, and somehow or other the sense of quiet and the beauty of the view soothed me, and I felt less irritable than for days past. I never get tired of the dip of green fields and the stretch of moor on the far side of the wood.

"Can you spare me a full hour, Miss Holden?" he asked. "I have come down specially to see you, principally because I have had a letter from Mr. Evans which in some measure concerns you, and also because I want to continue the discussion of the parable of the marbles which we were considering the other evening."

How pretty the landscape looked from our garden! Cloud shadows were racing each other across the pastures as I lay back and watched them, and I thought the view had never been bonnier.

"I am not overworked," I replied, "and I can give up a whole afternoon, if necessary. What is the news from the squire? Nothing serious, I hope; and yet it must be important to bring you down here specially."

"I hardly know what to say. Something in his letter conveys the impression that he is far from well again, though he does not definitely say so. But it appears that he has asked you to go out to him if he becomes seriously ill. That is so, isn't it?"

"Yes," I answered, "and I have promised to go. It touches me deeply that he should want me."

"I don't wonder," he said; but whether at my emotion or the squire's proposal did not transpire.

"If and when he sends for you," he continued, "he wishes you to communicate with me, and he asks me to make all the business arrangements for you. I need hardly say that it will afford me much pleasure to do whatever I can. I will give you my Broadbeck and town addresses, and if you will wire me whenever you need my services I will reply at once. Please don't feel obliged to look anything up for yourself, as I will see to every detail, and provide all that is necessary for the journey in accordance with my old friend's instructions."

"It is extremely good of you," I said, "and very thoughtful on the squire's part. I accept your offer gratefully. But do you think there is much likelihood of my being sent for?"

"Candidly, I think there is; equally candidly, I hope the necessity may not arise. If the end comes whilst he is abroad, a man ought by all means to be present, for there will be no end of difficulties, and it will be absolutely necessary for someone to go out. But that takes time, and meanwhile the position would not be a pleasant one for you. I would go to him myself now but for two insuperable difficulties, one being that certain important duties keep me in London at present, and the other that Mr. Evans most distinctly does not want me."

"I quite see what you mean," I said; "but if the worst happens, and I am there at the time, I shall do my best and not mind the unpleasantness."

"I am sure of that," he returned, "but you don't at all realise what is involved. However, we won't discuss this further. On his account I should be heartily glad for you to go, and I am relieved that he has had the good sense to suggest it."

"I regard him very highly," I said.

"You do more: you love him," he remarked, with a sharp, keen glance at my face.

"Yes, I think I love him," I replied without confusion. "I could easily be his daughter; we have much in common."

He said nothing for quite a long time, during which he threw his cigarette away and lit a pipe. Then he turned to me:

"Now for my parable."

"Yes," I said; "tell me about it."

"You guessed, of course, that it is a matter that affects me deeply and seriously?"

"I was afraid so. I could not be certain, of course, but I felt that it was much more than an ethical conundrum."

"God knows it was, and He knows, too, that I am grateful to you for the clear lead you gave, suspecting, as you must have done, that it meant much to me."

Had I suspected? I suppose I did, for my heart, I remember, beat painfully; yet I had not thought much more of it since. I looked at him, and saw that his face was white but resolute, and I said hesitatingly:

"I am sorry if you are in trouble, but Farmer Goodenough thinks that troubles are blessings in disguise. I wish I could give you more than second-hand comfort."

"I am going to tell you exactly where I stand," he said, "and you must not allow your woman's instinct of comfort to cloud or bias your judgment. Goodenough may be right, but if I take the step I contemplate it will not be because I expect good to result to myself—though there may be, no doubt, a certain spiritual gain—but because it is the only course possible to me if I am to retain my self-respect.

"You will hardly have heard of a rather prominent case in which I figured recently as counsel for the plaintiff."

"Lessingham versus Mainwaring?" I queried.

"You have heard of it then? Do you know the details?"

"Not at all. I simply read in the paper that you had won the case for your client."

"I see. Well, it would take too long, and would be too uninteresting to you to explain everything, but put briefly the case was this. Mainwaring had got hold of a considerable sum of money—over £7,000, as a matter of fact—which Lessingham claimed belonged to him. There were a great many points which were interesting to lawyers, and when the plaintiff's brief was offered to me I jumped at it. A barrister has often to wait a long time before any plums fall to his share, but this was a big one, for the other side had engaged two of the most eminent counsel in the land; and I had a big figure marked on my brief.

"We had a tremendous fight, and in the heat of the forensic duel I lost sight of everything except the one goal of triumphant and overwhelming victory. I have no desire to speak of my accomplishment in terms that may sound egotistical, but I may say without affectation that I found all the weak places in the defence and used every talent I could command to crush my opponents, and I succeeded, and became for a week one of the most talked-of men in London. Outwardly collected, I was inwardly exalted above measure, for I knew what the winning of the case meant for me.

"I say I knew. I should have said I thought I knew. All I realised was that briefs would now be showered upon me, as they have been—as they are being. What I failed to realise was that I should have to stand at the bar of my own conscience, and be tried by the inexorable judge whose sentences are without mercy. That came to pass quickly, and I was condemned, and on appeal you confirmed the judgment."

"I? Oh, Mr. Derwent!"

"During the course of the trial I became convinced, or at any rate I had grave reasons for suspecting that my client was a scoundrel, and had no right to a penny of the money. The conviction came in part from what was revealed to me in conversation with him, and in part from what came out in evidence, but at the moment I did not care. I was paid to win my case, not to secure justice. That was for the judge and jury. There was more than that, however. It was not the lust of gain, but the lust of glory that obsessed me. I, Philip Derwent, was going to defeat Ritson and Friend at whatever cost.

"But, Miss Holden, I have inherited certain qualities which are likely to put awkward obstacles in the path of ambition. My father was a good man. He was scrupulously, fastidiously honest. He believed that the principles of the Sermon on the Mount could and should be practised in everyday life. Consequently he never made much money, and was terribly disappointed when his only son adopted the law as a profession. Some—not all, but some—of his qualities are in my blood; and the voice of conscience is always telling me that the father was a better man than the son, and that, unless I am careful, I shall sell my life for power and possessions; and I have made up my mind to be careful.

"Well, I have made inquiries—carefully and without hurry—and I now know for a fact that Mainwaring had every right to that money, and that Lessingham is a fraud, so that my course is clear. I have seen Lessingham, and he laughs in my face. 'You knew it at the time, old man!' he said; 'and a jolly good thing you've made out of it.' There was no chance of putting things right from that quarter."

"But, Mr. Derwent," I interrupted, "surely in your profession this is an everyday occurrence. Both sides cannot be right, and both need legal assistance."

"True," he replied, "and you must quite understand my attitude. I am not judging any of my brethren: to their own master they stand or fall. But for myself, I am not going to support any case, in the future, which I am not convinced is a just one. If, after accepting a brief, I have reason to believe that I am espousing an unjust cause I will throw it up at whatever sacrifice."

"I am afraid it will mean great sacrifice," I murmured.

"Would you recommend me not to do it?" he asked.

"You must obey your Inner Self, or suffer torment," I replied.

"I must, and I will," he said firmly. "Now listen to me. My father was not, as I have said, a wealthy man, and on his death I inherited little beyond good principles and good books. The waiting period for financial success was long, but latterly I have made money. I have £7,000 in the bank, and a good income. And my judgment agrees with yours: I must part with my marbles."

"Oh, Mr. Derwent," I exclaimed; "think well before you take so serious a step! What is my hasty decision worth? It was given on the spur of the moment: it was the immature judgment of an inexperienced woman!"

"It was the spontaneous expression of pure, instinctive truth," he replied. "Yet do not feel any sense of responsibility. I had already reached the same conclusion: you merely confirmed it, and in doing so helped and strengthened me—though the decision set back a hope that had arisen within me."

"But, Mr. Derwent"—I was groping around vainly for a loophole of escape—"this Mr. Mainwaring, is he poor? does he need the money? will he use it well?"

"What does that matter?" he replied. "His wealth or poverty cannot affect the question of right or wrong. The money is his by right. I robbed him of it by forensic cunning and rhetoric, and I will repay him. As a matter of fact he is fabulously wealthy, and £7,000 is to him a mere drop in an ocean. And he spends his money on horses and dissipation. He is a bigger scoundrel than Lessingham, and that is saying much."

"But what a shame, Mr. Derwent! It does not seem right."

"It can never be wrong to do right. Besides, I misled you at the outset of our conversation—misled you purposely. I could not change my mind now if I wished to do so, for I posted Mainwaring a cheque for the full amount this morning."

I felt ready to cry, but there was as much joy as sorrow in my breast. I believe I smiled, and I held out my hand, which he grasped and retained a moment.

At that instant a telegraph boy pushed open the gate and advanced towards me.

"Miss Holden?" he inquired.

I took the envelope and tore it open. It contained only a brief message:

"Zermatt. July 22nd.

"Please come soon as possible. See Derwent.

"EVANS. Hotel Victoria."

I burst into tears, and went into the house.