The conversation turned at first on generalities and current events; the presence of Mr. Plover, instead of feeding it with a fresh stream, seemed to check the flow and prevent its becoming intimate and personal. Sir Simon felt this, and took it in his own hands and kept it going, so that, if not as lively as usual, it did not flag. Raymond looked on and listened in amazement. Was yesterday’s letter a dream, and would this supreme crisis vanish as lesser ones had so often done? Was it possible that a man could be so gay—so, to all appearance, contented and unconcerned, on the very brink of ruin, disgrace, beggary, banishment—all, in a word, that to a man of the baronet’s character and position constitute existence? He was not in high spirits. Raymond would not so much have wondered at that. High spirits are sometimes artificial; people get them up by stimulants as a cloak for intense depression. No, it was real cheerfulness and gayety. Was there any secret hope bearing him up to account for the strange anomaly? Raymond could speculate on this in the midst of his own burning anxiety; but for the first time in his life bitterness mingled with his sympathy for the baronet. Was it not all his own doing, this disgrace that had overtaken him? He had been an unprincipled spendthrift all his life, and now the punishment had come, and was swallowing up others in its ruin. If he had not been the reckless, extravagant man that he was, he might at this moment be a harbor of refuge to Raymond, and save his child from a premature death. But he was powerless to help any one. This is what his slavish human respect had brought himself and others to. A few hundred pounds might save, or at any rate prolong for perhaps many years, the life of the child he professed to love as his own, and he had not them to give; he had squandered his splendid patrimony in the most contemptible vanity, in selfish indulgence and unprofitable show. And there he sat, a piece of tinsel glittering like true gold, affable, jovial, as if care were a hundred miles away from him. M. de la Bourbonais felt as if he were in a dream, as if everything were unreal—everything except the vulture that was gnawing silently at his own heart.
The conversation grew livelier as the wine went round. Mr. Plover was attending carefully to his dinner, and was content to let others do the most of the talking. A discussion arose as to a case of something very like perjury that a magistrate of the next county had been involved in. Some were warmly defending, while others as warmly condemned, him. Mr. Plover suspended the diligence of his knife and fork to join with the latter; he was almost aggressive in his manner of contradicting the other side. The story was this: A magistrate had to judge a case of libel where the accused was a friend of his own, who had saved him from being made a bankrupt some years before by lending him a large sum of money without interest or security. The evidence broke down, and the man was acquitted. It transpired, however, a few days later, that the magistrate had in his possession at the time of the trial proof positive of his friend’s guilt. In answer to this charge he replied that the evidence in question had come to his knowledge under the seal of confidence; that he was therefore bound in honor not only not to divulge it, but to ignore its existence in forming his judgment on the case. The statement was denied, and it was affirmed that the only seal which bound him was one of gratitude, and that he was otherwise perfectly free to make use of his information to condemn the accused.
The dispute as to the right and the wrong of the question was growing hot, when Sir Ponsonby Anwyll, who noticed how silent Raymond was, called out to him across the table:
“And what do you say, count?”
“I should say that gratitude in such a case might stand in the place of a verbal promise and compel the judge to be silent,” replied Raymond.
“The temptation to silence was very strong, no doubt, but would it justify him in pronouncing an acquittal against his conscience?” asked Mr. Langrove.
“It was not against his conscience,” replied the count; “on the contrary, it was in accordance with it, since it was on the side of mercy.”
“Quite a French view of the subject!” said Mr. Plover superciliously, showing his shining teeth through his coal-black moustache. “If I were a criminal, commend me to a French jury; but if innocent, give me an English one!”
“Mercy has perhaps too much the upper hand with our tender-hearted neighbors,” observed Sir Simon; “but justice is none the worse for being tempered with it.”
“That is neither here nor there,” said Mr. Plover. “Justice is justice, and law is law; and it strikes me this Mr. X—— has tampered with both, and it’s a very strange thing if he is not tabooed as a perjurer who has dodged the letter of the law and escaped the hulks, but whom no gentleman ought from this out to associate with.”