The Master Spirit

by Sir William Magnay

“I might,” he rejoined, “have done much less.”

“And what convinced you?” she asked.

“My client herself,” he answered.

Then again, just as their hearts seemed to come near to one another, they drew away again. Perhaps to her the time appeared not ripe, while on his part, a chilling shadow seemed to intervene between him and his love; the figure of Gastineau, the brain, whose mouthpiece he was.

His relations with Gastineau formed, indeed, a consideration which had begun to exercise his mind very disagreeably, and which he felt must in honour make him pause before declaring his love for Alexia. She would take him as he took her, judging by fair outward appearance, by the affinity of their beings, by—in short—by that reciprocal personal attraction which produces love. On her side, doubtless, the foundation for regard, the regard which he hoped and believed was ripening into love, had been admiration. He had been in her service skilful, courageous, chivalrous; he seemed to have sprung to her side when sorely pressed, as her champion, almost heaven-sent, and, apart from the professional relation in the matter, her gratitude and admiration were unbounded. No doubt the personal element had much to do with this. Chance might have given for her defence a dry, crabbed old lawyer, a Macvee, dusty, aggressive and uncompromising, who would yet have served her well, at the same time regarding her merely as a client rather more interesting than usual. But Geoffrey Herriard was very different. He was comparatively a young man; he had, if not a handsome, at least an interesting clear-cut face; he was an attractive personality, a rising politician, an already risen member of the Bar. His career was assured, and his history carried with it that interest which successful cleverness can always claim. What wonder, then, that Alexia, almost a woman of the world, at least a femme faite, though she might be, should grow more and more attracted by her counsel who had quickly become her friend as well as her brother’s?

And yet, as Herriard kept telling himself all through the days and nights, he was a lie; a living, pleading, arguing, ingratiating lie. His form, his voice were his own, and that was all. The brain he took credit for was another man’s. The telling speeches, the masterly conduct of the case, the shrewd arguments, even the smart retorts by which he scored, were no more his than are Shakespeare’s lines the actor’s who utters them.

So he stood that day, a fraud, a living sham, a man who took credit for achievements which were not his, for work which he, unaided, could never have brought to a successful accomplishment. And the worst of his position was, as he now felt it, that the excuse he might make told against him, was, in fact, the crux of his situation. For its avowal, the confession of the fraud, was out of the question. Were he not bound in honour to the friend, to whom he owed everything, not to divulge the secret; could he for very shame make it known that for years he had been living and thriving and gaining fame by another man’s brains? True, the situation had been acquiesced in by the other man, but would that be accepted as an excuse by the world which had hailed him, Geoffrey Herriard, as a supremely clever fellow? The world would feel it had been swindled out of its applause; it would turn and resent the cheat.

Then, supposing he cared nothing for the world and its sneers, that he was prepared to brazen the matter out, should it come to light, to let its success justify the trick, how would it be with Alexia? Could he ever hope to rehabilitate himself in her eyes? He told himself, he knew it with absolute conviction, that she was as the soul of honour; how could he declare himself to her as an incarnation of falsehood? Sometimes he felt he could wish that she were guilty of this charge; it would at most have been a venial crime, and it would bring them a little nearer to an equality in wrong-doing.

Then, often, in the conflict of his love, he would wish that he could break himself free of Gastineau: that he could run alone now, looking upon the past partnership as a term of mere pardonable tutelage. Then honour, never driven out from his false life, would rise and rebuke him for ingratitude. Still, he would argue, the bond between himself and Gastineau could scarcely be expected to run for the term of their lives. It would have to be determined sooner or later; and, after all, the benefit derived from the partnership was in some degree mutual. The sword which Gastineau had put into his hand, and the skill in fence which he had taught him, had been greatly used to stab the disabled fencer’s rivals and enemies, to prevent them from profiting by the disappearance of their old adversary. In the intoxicating whirl of success which had hurried him onwards and upwards, Herriard had not found pause to realize the true, inevitable logic of his position. Love was now the Nemesis which was bringing it bitterly home to him.

And that same night the foreshadowing of another and totally unthought-of contingency rose to disturb him. This time it came from his fellow guest, and in this way.