World's End Part 21

He went. Broughton received him kindly, and explained that he wanted a clerk, not so much for technical work as for correspondence, and to give general a.s.sistance. Aymer being a novice and completely ignorant of such duties, could not of course expect much salary. However, he would have thirty-five shillings per week. This offer was made partly through Lady Lechester's influence, partly out of the interest he himself took in Aymer. But a true lawyer, he could not help doing even good as cheaply as possible. Aymer thanked him, and accepted the post.

VOLUME TWO, CHAPTER TEN.

Aymer would in times gone by have regarded the employment he had now obtained as a great step in advance, and have rejoiced accordingly. But he had been too near the prize for it to give him even so much as hope for the future. He _wished_ to be grateful for what he had got; he tried to look upon it as a wonderful thing, but it was impossible. The contrast between the actual, and what had been within his very grasp was too intense.

It was an easy place. Beyond a little correspondence to write for Mr Broughton, and sometimes a little copying, he had practically nothing to do. His hours were short for the business--only from ten till four; he had plenty of time at his own disposal.

The fact was that his salary came, not directly, but indirectly from Lady Lechester, and he was favoured accordingly. If he had known this he would have been still more dissatisfied.

The office in which he was placed was a kind of library or retiring apartment, opening by double doors into Mr Broughton's private room; and he was often called upon to bear witness to certain transactions of a strictly private nature, and in which the solicitor told him he relied upon his honour as a gentleman, to preserve secrecy.

Broughton really meant him well, and did his best now and then to start him on in the acquisition of a knowledge of the law. Books were put into his hands, and he was told what parts of them to study, and had to prepare extracts from them occasionally. Aymer did his best, conscientiously, but he hated it--he hated it most thoroughly. It was not altogether that the reading in these books was dry and uninteresting to the last degree. Flat, tame, spiritless, meaningless,--a mere collection of decisions, interpretations, precedents--such they appeared at first. Aymer had talent and insight sufficient to speedily observe that this forbidding aspect was not the true one.

All these precedents, rules, decisions--these ten thousand subtle distinctions--were much like the laws or rules of a game at chess. They decided in what way a p.a.w.n should be moved or a bishop replaced. The science of law seemed to him like a momentous game at chess, only the pieces were living human creatures.

These subtle distinctions and technical divisions, formalities though they appeared, had a meaning, and a deep one. Following his employer, Mr Broughton, into the petty law courts at Barnham, he saw how the right and the wrong, the sorrow or the joy of human beings depended almost upon the quibble of a word, the incident of a slip of the pen.

It was a game--a game requiring long study, an iron memory, quick observation, and quicker decision; and he hated it--hated it because the right appeared to be of no consequence. Truth, and what he had always thought was meant by justice, were left entirely out of sight.

It was not the man who had the right upon his side who won. If that was the case, what use would there be for lawyers? Too often it was the man who had the law upon his side, and the law only. He actually heard magistrates, and even judges, expressing their regret that the law compelled them to give decisions contrary to the true justice of the cause before them.

By degrees he became aware of the extraordinary fact, that with all the c.u.mbrous system of law phrases--a system that requires a special dictionary--there was not even a word to express what he understood as justice; not even a word to express it!

Justice meant a decision according to the law, and not according to the right or wrong of the particular case proceeding; equity meant a decision based upon a complex, antiquated, unreasonable jumble of obsolete customs. The sense of the word "equity"--as it is used in the sublime prophecy, "With equity shall he judge the world"--was entirely lost.

In the brief time that he had sat beside Mr Broughton in these Courts, Aymer conceived an intense loathing for the whole system. After all, what was the law, upon which so much was based, which over-rode equity, justice, truth, and even conscience? What was this great fetish to which every one bowed the knee--from the distinguished and learned judge downwards, the judge who, in point of fact, admitted and regretted that he decided against his conscience? It was princ.i.p.ally precedent.

Because a man had once been hung for a murder committed in a certain manner, men must always be hung for murder. Because a judge had once given a verdict which, under the circ.u.mstances, was as _near the right_ as he dared to go (and our judges do this), then every one who came after must be dealt with by this immovable standard.

The very pa.s.sage of time itself--the changes introduced into society, custom, and modes of thought in the course of the years--was in itself a strong and all-sufficient argument against this fetish precedent.

That was not all. Aymer in his position--to a certain extent confidential--had a glimpse behind the scenes. Quick of observation and comprehension, he saw that even this game of argument, and precedent, and quibble was not conducted honestly. He had heard and read so much of the freedom, the liberty of England, the safety of the subject, the equal justice meted out to all, that he was literally confounded when the bare facts stared him in the face.

There was jobbery, corruption under the whole of it; there was cla.s.s prejudice operating in the minds of those on the judgment-seat; there were a thousand-and-one small, invisible strings, which palled this way and that behind the scenes. It was, after all, a species of Punch and Judy show, moved by wires, and learnt by rote by the exhibitor.

It sickened and wearied him. Sitting on those hard benches, he longed for liberty--longed to escape from the depressing influence of the atmosphere of chicanery in which he was plunged. The very sight of those hideous faces which are sure to congregate in the criminal justice-room, seemed to weaken the fresh young spirit within him.

Yet, as said before, Mr Broughton used him kindly. He found Aymer lodgings cheap and fairly comfortable. Aymer had often desired to escape from his solitary room at Wick Farm; but even that cold, lonely apartment was better than this. These four walls had no a.s.sociation-- they were walls only--partly concealed with a few common prints. One of these, over the mantelpiece, looked down upon him as he sat by his fire in the evening. He saw it night after night, till at last that engraving seemed to almost live, and he watched to see when the labour of the prisoner should be completed. For it was the picture of the prisoner sitting in his cell upon a stone bench, painfully chiselling out upon the stone wall--just where a single beam of sunlight fell--the figure of Christ upon the Cross, with the rude tool of a common iron nail.

He grew to understand the feelings and the thought, to sympathise in the work of the prisoner in his dungeon. The solitary ray of sunshine that fell upon his life was the love of Violet. He was himself confined, imprisoned by the iron bars and the strong walls of poverty, and the tools he had at hand for his labour of love were scanty and rude. How could he in that contracted sphere, without travel, without change of scene and conversation with other men, ever hope to find materials for works with which to please the world, and obtain for himself fame and position? He understood now the deep meaning of the words put in Ulysses' mouth--"I am a part of all that I have met." They applied with tenfold force to the artistic, and to the literary career. It was only by extended experience, by contact with the wide, wide world, that he could hope to comprehend what it wanted. Yet it sometimes happened that even the prisoner in his cell, by sheer self-concentration, and with the aid of the rude tools and material within his reach, produced a work which could not be surpa.s.sed. The poor prisoner of the picture reminded him constantly of this. He tried. He thought and thought, till at last, in the quiet and solitude of his lonely room, an idea did occur to him--not a very great or remarkable idea either, but still one which, he felt, if properly carried out, might produce substantial results.

Evening after evening, upon leaving the office, he laboured at his new conception, ill.u.s.trating his book with his own pencil, spending hour after hour upon it far into the night. So absorbed was he upon it, that he almost neglected Violet's letters--almost, he could not quite--but his notes were so short and so unlike his usual style, that she, with her knowledge of his character, saw at once what he was doing, and kept begging him not to overwork himself.

"Circ.u.mstances over which we have no control." There are other circ.u.mstances still more powerful--i.e., those circ.u.mstances which we never even think of controlling, which happen so quietly and whose true significance is so little apparent at the time, that we pa.s.s them by without a thought.

It happened that Mr Broughton was engaged in a cause which necessitated extracts to be made from a file of old newspapers. Being overworked himself, and his staff also in full employment, he asked Aymer to do this, and to do it especially well and carefully. Aymer began the work, and at first found it dry enough, but as he got deeper into it, the strange contrast presented by this contemporary chronicle with the present day gradually forced itself upon him, and he ceased to cast aside the papers so soon as the particular extract required was made.

Presently the idea occurred to him of writing an article for the London papers, founded upon the curiosities of these old sheets of news. With this view, after he had finished the work he was set to do, he got into the habit of carrying two or three of the papers home, and re-reading and studying them, and making notes by his own fireside. The file was really interesting. It began in the year 1710. The _Barnham Chronicle_ was one of those extremely old papers published in county towns, which live on from year to year without an effort, because they meet with no opposition. The circle of its readers, in all probability, at that date--more than a century and a half after its establishment--was scarcely larger than in the first year of publication. It had been taken and read by whole generations. The son found it taken by his father, and when he succeeded to the farm, to the mill, or to the shop, continued the old subscription.

Looked at in the light of the present day, when intelligence is flashed from end to end of the kingdom in a few hours, the _Barnham Chronicle_ was all but ridiculous. Its news was a week old or more, stale and unprofitable. It did not even advance so far as to have a London letter; but perhaps that was no great loss to its readers.

Yet the _Barnham Chronicle_ was a "property" in more than one sense; it paid, as well it might, at fourpence per copy, and with the monopoly of auctioneer's and lawyer's advertis.e.m.e.nts in that district. And it could boast of a more than patriarchal age.

Reading slowly, paragraph by paragraph, through this enormous file, his note-book at his side, Aymer came upon one advertis.e.m.e.nt, simply worded, and with no meretricious advantage given to it by large type or other printer's resource, yet which he read with a special interest. It contained the name of Waldron, of The Place, Bury Wick; and that name was sufficient to attract him. It ran thus:--

"Notice of Change of Name.--I, Arthur Sibbold, tea-dealer, of the City of London, in the county of Middles.e.x, do hereby give notice, that it is my intention to apply for permission to add to my present baptismal names the name of Waldron, upon the occasion of my approaching marriage with Miss Annica Waldron, of The Place, Bury Wick, co. B--, etc, etc. And that I shall be henceforward known, called, and designated by the name of Arthur Sibbold Waldron in all deeds, writings, etc, etc."

To us who are acquainted with the history of the city of Stirmingham, this entry has a wide significance; to Aymer it had none beyond the mere fact of the mention of Waldron. He copied it into his note-book with a mental resolve to show it to Violet, and thought no more of it. An event that happened about this time made him forget all about what appeared to him a trivial matter. This was the trial of Jenkins, the gardener, for the murder of Jason Waldron. Mr Broughton, who was engaged for the defence, to instruct counsel, naturally made much use of Aymer's local knowledge and perfect acquaintance with the details of that terrible day, and was thereby furnished with fresh and overwhelming arguments.

Aymer worked with a will, for he knew that Violet was much concerned and extremely anxious as to the result, and he watched the proceedings on the fateful day with intense interest. It is needless to recapitulate the details of the case, which have been already given. The result was an acquittal. The Judge summed up in favour of the prisoner, observing that it was monstrous if a man must be condemned to the last penalty of the law, because it so chanced that a tool belonging to him had been s.n.a.t.c.hed up as the readiest instrument for a murderous attack. To his experience the murder did not appear at all in the light of an ordinary crime. In the first place, there was an apparent absence of motive. So far as was known, Waldron had no enemies and no quarrel with any man.

Evidently it was not committed with the intention of theft, as not a single article had been missed. It appeared to him like the unaccountable impulse of an unreasoning being; in plain words, like the act of _a lunatic with homicidal tendencies_. The jury unanimously acquitted the prisoner, and Aymer hastened to send the news to Violet.

He could not post with it himself, as Mr Broughton had other cases to attend to.

Poor Jenkins was free--and lost. The shock had stunned him, and he was too old and too much weakened by disease to ever recover from it. He could not face his native village, the place where his family, though humble, had for generations borne a good character. He had an almost childish dread of meeting any one from Bury Wick or World's End, and even avoided Aymer, who sought him in the crowd.

How truly was it said that "service is no inheritance!" After two generations of faithful service, these poor people were practically exiled from home and friends, and this without fault of their own.

Violet would have gladly done what she could for the aged couple. They might have, at all events, lived at The Place and taken care of the old house, but she and Aymer lost sight of them entirely.

All that was known was that a few weeks after the acquittal, a waggon came and fetched away their goods from the cottage, and Jenkins was heard of no more--for the time. He had, in fact, found work, and buried himself, as he hoped, for ever out of sight. There was a certain natural pride in him, and it had been cruelly trampled upon. Suffer what he might, he would not ask for aid--not even from Violet. And he did suffer--he and his poor shattered wife. With not exactly a bad character, but the stigma of "murder" clinging to him, he wandered about seeking work, and nearly starved.

Even in Bury Wick, where he was so well-known, had he returned, he would have found a certain amount of reluctance to receive him into the old grooves. In distant villages where the dreadful tale of blood had penetrated, and where the people had had little or no opportunity of hearing the facts, there was still a strong prejudice against him; and it must be owned that from an outsider's point of view, it _did_ look suspicious that he should have been alone near the house when the deed was committed. So it was that he found it hard to get employment, especially now the winter was come, and labour less in demand.

At length, worn-out and exhausted with hunger and wandering, he accepted the wages of a boy from Albert Herring, and a waggon was sent to fetch his goods.

Albert Herring had the reputation of being a hard master, and it was well deserved. Hard work, long hours, small pay, and that given grudgingly, and withheld on trivial pretences--these were the practices which gained for him the hatred of the labouring population. Yet with singular inconsistency they were always willing to work for him. This is a phenomenon commonly to be observed--the worst of masters can always command plenty of men.

With Jenkins it was a matter of necessity. If he could not get work he must starve or go into the union--dreaded almost as much as the prison.

Albert kept him several days after his application--he would see about it--he was in no hurry. He laid much stress upon the gardener's age, though the other a.s.sured him that willingness would compensate for that Jenkins had been a gardener, not a labourer. It was doubtful if he would understand his duties if he was put on to cut a hedge.

"Oh, yes!" said the old man, eagerly; "I can use an axe or a bill-hook."

"Ay, ay," said Albert, brutally. "Thee can _use a bill-hook_, so I've heard say."

Jenkins bowed his head, and his lip quivered.

The upshot was that he was put on at nine shillings per week--one shilling to be deducted for rent of a small cottage.

VOLUME TWO, CHAPTER ELEVEN.

This trial of poor Jenkins took up Aymer's time, so that he had no leisure for his new book, which had to be laid aside; and when he was in hopes of returning to it, another incident again interrupted him. The work he had to do was very little after all; it was not the amount, but the character of it, that he disliked.

Yet, notwithstanding his hatred of the law, he could not help imbibing some small smattering which afterwards proved extremely serviceable.

The change from World's End was also beneficial in another manner--it opened his eyes to much that he had never suspected. If anything, his inclination hitherto would have been to have taken most people pretty much at their word. This may sound childish to the young men of the period, who--in the habit of frequenting billiard saloons, horse-races, card parties, hotels, and all places where people congregate--naturally pick up a good deal of knowledge of the world sufficient to astonish their parents, at all events.

Aymer certainly was not a model young man. Without a doubt, if he had been placed where such amus.e.m.e.nts were easily accessible, he would have done much as others of his age did; but it so happened that living at World's End, entirely out of society, he had no such opportunities.

After a month or so at Broughton's office his eyes began to open, and he saw that things are very different under the surface to what they appear outwardly. He became less ready to accept what people said, or did in the sense they wished others to see them, and commenced a habit of deducting a large percentage from the price they put upon themselves.

He had been three times to see Violet--staying only a few hours--and was agreeably surprised with the pleasant reception he received from Lady Lechester, who took an opportunity of informing him privately that she wished Violet to continue with her. Violet was well, but dull. She was no sentimental heroine to pine away at separation from Aymer; but it was only natural that she should miss the old a.s.sociations. Particularly she begged Aymer not to overwork himself at night with his private labour.

Lady Lechester seconded this, saying that she had known a gentleman who, much of the same disposition as Aymer, had lost his wits through incessant application. He was a relation of hers, and was now confined in an asylum at Stirmingham. To save speculation, it will be as well to at once mention that this person was not Odo Lechester.