Читать книгу Branded, or, The Daughters of a Convict - Gerald Biss - Страница 7

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Caton Bramber was a busy man, and he was setting his house in order in view of the approach of the Long Vacation.

At forty-three the great King's Counsel was at the zenith of his career, and no big case in the Courts was ever fought without his being briefed for one side or the other. The first preliminary to a great legal battle was always a dash for his chambers with a heavily-marked brief. From the days of the great Jerningham case he had never looked back or lacked work; and now he had too much of it. Money poured in from all sides; and, as he often said with a laugh, the only drawback was that he hadn't sufficient time to spend it. Parliament, the stepping-stone of all ambitious lawyers, claimed a considerable share of his leisure. Still, by dint of early rising and burning midnight oil over lengthy briefs, he always managed to keep in touch with the social side of life, and no man in London was more sought after as a diner-out than the bachelor K.C.

Still, with it all, owing to an invaluable capacity to sleep promptly and to rest lightly, combined with regular exercise, he had kept marvellously young. He did not even look his age, and his enjoyment of life was as keen as a schoolboy's.

As he walked with his usual rapid swing towards the Temple, it must be confessed that his mind for once was not centred on the day's work or things political. The cases of the day were humdrum and commonplace, and he foresaw without regret a comparatively slack morning. His thoughts were pleasantly anticipating "the Twelfth," and in imagination he was tramping over the heather after the grouse. His favorite extravagance was a grouse moor, and there for a brief period of the year he shifted all questions of law and law-making, entertaining his friends, eschewing shop, and enjoying himself whole-heartedly.

It was just before ten when he entered his chambers in King's Bench Walk, banishing the attractions of the moor and compelling his mind into its legal groove.

"There is a lady waiting to see you, sir," said his clerk, following him into his room.

"A lady? Who is she?" exclaimed Caton Bramber in surprise.

"Her card is on the table, sir," answered the clerk.

The K.C. picked it up and glanced at it.

"Mrs. Chichele," he murmured. "Can you spare me a few moments? I need your advice urgently."

He had been on friendly terms with Mrs. Chichele for several years, and often dined at her house, which he regarded as one of the pleasantest in town; but he had to confess himself surprised at her unexpected and unconventional visit.

"Is she alone?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," replied the clerk; "quite alone."

"What time does 'Allanton v. Judd' come on?"

"Second on the list in King's Bench No. V., sir—expected to come on about 11.30."

"All right, Adams. Show Mrs. Chichele in at once."

Mrs. Chichele entered the room with a certain diffidence, bred by the unusual surroundings.

Caton Bramber rose and held out his hand.

"I must apologise," she began hastily, "for what must appear at first sight an unwarrantable intrusion upon such a busy man; but, believe me, my reason is a good one."

"I am sure of that, Mrs. Chichele," he said pleasantly, putting her at once at her ease. "Can I do anything to help you?"

"I want your advice most urgently, and when you hear my story you will readily understand why I came to you of all people. I am suddenly—since I saw you last night, in fact—brought face to face with a strange crisis, and I hesitate to act on my own responsibility.

"Sit down," said the K.C. kindly, "and tell me your story."

"Where it will claim your interest," began Mrs. Chichele, "is that it is connected with the Jerningham case."

"The Jerningham case?" he exclaimed surprised out of himself.

"Has it ever occurred to you," she went on, watching him closely, "who Phyllis and Doris are?"

"No," he answered, in a strange voice, guessing suddenly by intuition.

"They are only my nieces by adoption. They are the Jerningham twins."

"Good heavens!" he exclaimed, interestedly. "So you are the anonymous lady who came forward and adopted them?"

Mrs. Chichele nodded assent.

"I've often wondered whom the elder one reminded me of," went on the K.C. "Only last night at Lady Teviotdale's I was puzzling about it, and she caught me staring at her once or twice."

A momentary silence ensued.

"I have kept it to myself all these years," continued Mrs. Chichele, "and no one has ever suspected their identity. But now I am called upon by a very natural conjuncture of circumstances which I had foolishly overlooked to reveal it to them—or to someone else."

"You mean the fact that Mrs. Jerningham will be free again within a month?" asked Caton Bramber, frowning reflectively.

"No, that is not the immediate reason; but my story will explain. I offered to adopt them, partly out of sympathy for poor Helen Jerningham, whom, though I did not know her personally, I always believed to be not guilty, and partly out of sheer loneliness. I had just been left a widow without children and without ties," she explained with unconscious pathos; "and my heart yearned for the two poor babies in such an awful position. The one condition she made was that they should never know who they were. 'I wish them to think me dead,' she said in the fulness of her love, sacrificing her own feelings utterly for the sake of their happiness and their future. As often as I have been allowed to I have visited her at Aylesbury, and a warm friendship has sprung up between us. The last time I saw her, just before she was sent to Cornwall in February, she once more insisted upon this point, though craving to see them with a passionate eagerness I cannot describe in words. She always asks after them most tenderly and pathetically, but refuses to see them or to allow them to hear one word which might upset their lives. 'It is the hardest part of all,' she said at our last meeting, 'but I insist.' For their sakes I agreed that it was best."

"Quite so, quite so," assented the lawyer, gently.

"But now another problem has arisen, and I do not see how I can honorably keep back the secret of their identity."

"What is that?" asked Caton Bramber interestedly.

"Last night both received proposals of marriage; and Doris accepted Ralph Shopwyke, with whom she is deeply in love, I fear."

"Umph," grunted the K.C., meditatively, clinching his brows sharply.

Another silence ensued.

"You know that I have always believed devoutly in Mrs. Jerningham's innocence?" began the lawyer, looking straight into her face.

Mrs. Chichele nodded.

"Well, for years Sir Patrick O'Brien moved heaven and earth to obtain her release, petitioning Home Secretary after Home Secretary for a pardon, even after his elevation to the Bench, and his failure was a very great grief to him. I, in my small way, did all I could to help him, and just before his death, of which he seemed to have a strange prescience, he made me promise never to relax my efforts to prove her innocence and to obtain a free pardon. I have done everything in my power since then, but I, too, have failed. There were many points in the case which were never satisfactorily proved, though the circumstantial evidence was unquestionably strong. For instance, there was no proper proof adduced that it was she who posted the bottle—that was pure theory on the part of the prosecution, and no attempt was made to show that it was she who bought it. The judge himself was dead against her all along, and did not give her a chance with the jury. And, above all, her own statements were all logical and clear and compatible with innocence. Sir Patrick O'Brien did not invent the line of defence which appealed so strongly to the public; he just used her own story, told to us with great simplicity and convincing directness by Helen Jerningham herself. To the day of his death he always contended that a grave miscarriage of justice had taken place. So, you see, my sympathies are very keenly enlisted upon her side, and I am anxious to do all that lies in my power for her. I am making arrangements to see her at once upon her release, and I shall then make a final effort for a revision of the sentence. From what I saw personally of Helen Jerningham, I believe that she thought more of the disgrace and the loss of her good name than of the sentence of death itself; and I can quite understand her nobly unselfish desire with regard to the girls. But what you tell me is most unfortunate, though inevitable, if that's any comfort. But I am glad you came to me, Mrs. Chichele—very glad, as the Jerningham case, if I may phrase it, has been the dominating influence of my career, and anything connected with it demands my most careful attention."

The K.C. paused. He was sitting forward in his chair, his elbows on his arms, and the tips of his fingers lightly touching—a favorite attitude of his when thinking deeply.

"All those years I have never dreamed that those two girls of yours were her children, the much-discussed twins, and I must candidly confess that I never realised that they must now be grown up. Nor, for that matter," he went on, "did I really realise that Phyllis and Doris had grown out of the schoolroom stage into marriageable misses! Yet of late Phyllis has puzzled me strangely by a likeness I now understand."

"Yes," said Mrs. Chichele, "she is very like her mother; far more so than little Doris. However, in disposition I should imagine Doris had more of the mother in her."

Caton Bramber listened with keen interest, nodding his head in comprehension.

"But, to return to the main point," he said, thinking of the time, "I know this young Shopwyke well—a splendid type of youngster—and I have a great regard for him. And though, in our opinion, it is no disgrace to be the daughter of a much-wronged woman, the verdict of the world, which always follows that of the jury, makes Doris ineligible as a wife. I am almost tempted to wish that she could marry him as she is, both in ignorance of the real state of affairs. However, that would not be an honorable mode of procedure, and might shipwreck the happiness of their lives at some future date."

"I thought of all that last night," interrupted Mrs. Chichele; "and I feel that it is impossible."

"And, moreover," continued the K.C., "you could not permit her to marry under any name but her own."

Mrs. Chichele nodded in assent.

"And that in itself would reveal the truth. The papers lately have been full of echoes of the case, and the name Jerningham is a household word. No," he concluded, with decision, "sad as it may be in some respects, I see no other course open to you but to tell the girls frankly who they are, and leave them to tell any man who wishes to marry them. It is the only upright and satisfactory way."

"But is very hard," said Mrs. Chichele, sadly.

"I know it is, my dear Mrs. Chichele, and I feel very strongly for both you and the girls themselves, and above all for the poor mother. But you must make up your mind to be brave about it. Rely on me to help you in any way I possibly can at any time; and we must hope that things will turn out better than they look at the moment."

"Thank you very much for your kindness and advice, Mr. Bramber," said Mrs. Chichele. "I am very grateful to you. Your words confirm my judgment on the situation; but in facing the crisis I felt suddenly weak, and needed moral support—someone to share the responsibility. That's why I came to you."

The K.C. nodded sympathetically.

"But now that I see my duty clearly," she went on, rising from her chair, "I will act at once. I will tell the girls without delay as soon as ever I get home. Poor little Doris is deeply pained and distressed, and I fear that my news will not help her much. Thank you again," she concluded, holding out her hand.

"You may always count upon me to do anything I can this matter," he answered, pressing it warmly. "It is one that lies very near my heart, and I deeply sympathise with you in the sad task ahead of you."

And with the hand-grip of a common bond she left the room, conscious of the addition of an ally in her time of need.