While Mr. Martindale was talking to the old man, Horatio Markham, according to a very common, but not very decorous practice of young men who affect literature, was amusing himself with taking down and opening one after another of the books; and seeing the character of them, and that in their selection they gave proof of a correct and polished taste, he could not but look more attentively at the old man’s niece, with an endeavour to trace in her countenance an expression of a style above that of a simple rustic. The human countenance is susceptible of great variety of expression, and owes much to surrounding circumstances: the very same set of features which in one garb and place would savour of rusticity, would bear a different interpretation in another garb and with other adjuncts. In like manner, the imagination of the spectator does much in giving an interpretation to features, and ascertaining physiognomical indications. So when Horatio Markham saw the young woman in the witness-box giving, with downcast look and trembling accents, her testimony as to the injury sustained by a poor old man, he could see nothing more, for he thought nothing more was to be seen, than a modest, simple, and tolerably pretty face, having no remarkable or peculiar expression. But when he saw the same person, with the same features and the same expression of retiring modesty, surrounded with the productions of art, and apparently the only person in the cottage to whom those productions could be interesting, and by whom those books should be read and enjoyed, he soon fancied that he observed indications of a superior mind and a cultivated understanding. Nay, so far did his imagination influence him, that the impulse which he first felt to address some inquiries to the old man’s niece concerning the books and drawings was absolutely repelled by a feeling of awe. He now began to paint to his imagination a person of superior rank, and to be astonished that he had not before observed that her whole style and expression was far above her professed situation.
As he was replacing on the shelf one of the books into which he had been looking, a hard substance fell to the ground, and he stooped immediately to pick it up; but the young woman was before him, and Markham saw, or thought he saw, that the article which she had thus hastily picked up, was neither more nor less than an ivory crucifix. The object itself he would not have noticed, but he was very much struck with the eagerness with which it was taken up and concealed. Apologising for his awkwardness, and accepting an acknowledgment of his apology, he turned from the books to look more minutely at the pictures. The drawings were, without exception, scenes in Italy, evidently executed by a practised hand, and bearing a date which rendered it highly improbable that they should have been the production of the old man’s niece.
The conversation which passed between Mr. Martindale and Richard Smith was indeed heard, but not heeded by Horatio Markham. It had a reference chiefly to the nature of the injury for which the old man had recently sought legal redress; and the account which Mr. Martindale received concerning the conduct of his honourable relative, was not by any means calculated to soothe the already irritated mind of the old gentleman. Turning the discourse from these unpleasant matters, he suddenly asked:
“Did not I hear music just before I came in? Does this young woman play or sing?”
This question excited the attention of Markham, who cast his eyes round the apartment, but all in vain, to find what musical instrument it was which he had heard while he was standing near the cottage. To the question thus asked no answer was given, but the young woman held down her head and blushed; exhibiting, as Markham thought, much more confusion than such an inquiry in such circumstances seemed to demand. Mr. Martindale did not repeat the question, but proceeded to say:
“Well, my good man, I have brought with me the young advocate who pleaded your cause so effectually. I hope he will be as successful in every cause that he undertakes, and that he will never undertake any less honourable to himself.”
“The law is a dangerous profession, sir; but we must not measure a man’s integrity by the brief which he holds. The barrister professes himself an advocate, not a judge; and if he refuses a brief because he thinks the cause a bad one, he acts with prejudice, seeing only one side of the question. Besides, sir, there are few causes which may bear altogether the name of bad. Sometimes a cause may be bad in law, but good in morals; sometimes an action at law may be good so far as the moral feeling is concerned, and bad as to the letter of some statute; and it is possible that some persons may consider any litigation whatever as being inconsistent with the strict letter of Christianity. We must also make great allowances for diversity of temper and disposition: what may appear just to one man appears perhaps too rigidly strict to another. I think, sir, that the barrister’s profession is unduly calumniated. If, indeed, a client comes to an advocate and says, ‘I wish to take an unfair advantage of my neighbour, and I will pay you to assist me,’ then the barrister would act improperly to sell his conscience to his client; but every litigant sees, or fancies he sees, something of right in his cause, and the barrister merely gives him legal assistance. The law is a dangerous profession indeed, because it may lead to a confusion of right and wrong; but while it endangers a man’s integrity, it also gives him abundant and honourable opportunity of displaying an upright mind and good principle. You will excuse an old man,” said he, turning towards Markham; “garrulity is the privilege of age; but I have had experience of the world. I see but little of it now; the time has been that I have seen more.”
Horatio Markham, though but five-and-twenty years of age—though he had gained two causes in the Court of King’s Bench—though he had been successful in his first brief in his native town—though he had at other towns on the circuit held an extraordinary number of briefs for a first journey—though he held those briefs by means of a reputation going before him that he was a man of good talents—though he had more than once received a marked compliment from his seniors both at the bar and on the bench—and though he was of humble origin, and was rationally expecting to rise in a profession which would place him in a higher station than his parents or early acquaintance, yet, with all this, he was not a coxcomb. Moralists and divines may speak as contemptuously as they will of negative virtues; but in defiance of their wisdom, we will contend that, humanly speaking, there was great merit in Horatio, that he did not feel himself unduly elated by all his honors. He attentively listened to the common-place harangue of old Richard Smith, and replied to it with the respect due to old age.
“You are very candid to the profession, sir; few will concede so much: but it would be difficult to find any profession or employment which is not subject to the reproaches of those who are not engaged in it. Indeed, I have known that even individuals in the profession have also spoken disrespectfully of its moral character and tendency.”
“Then,” replied the old man, “they ought to leave it. A profession cannot be indispensable that is essentially immoral. But, sir, I have to thank you for the manner in which you conducted my cause. It was well done of you that you spoke so temperately of the defendant, or that you rather let facts speak for themselves. I have no spiteful feeling against the gentleman, and for my own part could easily have borne with what I received from him; but I have a serious charge here,” pointing to his niece; “that poor child looks up to me for protection, and I must not suffer any one to approach her disrespectfully. I love her as if she were my own. She has, indeed, no other protector. I must be almost fastidious and jealous in the care that I take of her: a life dearer to me than my own depends upon her happiness.”