Part 3

If the prayers of a righteous man avail much, then should Sir Lionel Bodkin have been one of the most blessed of mortals; for the revivified minister prayed night and day for his benefactor, and called frequently at Bodkin Towers to return his personal thanks and to exhibit the beneficial results of the air of Grigsby on a constitution which he had regarded as shattered beyond hope of remedy.

“I don’t know how it is, Rachel,” he observed, after one of these visits, “but it seems to me that Sir Lionel does not seem to exhibit much joy and thankfulness at my marvellous recovery and daily access of strength.”

“Your fancy, pa dear,” replied his daughter.

“Perhaps so. And yet, when I said to him to-day that, next to Divine Providence, I owed my thanks to Sir Lionel Bodkin, he replied, rather testily, I thought, ‘Thank Providence, my dear doctor, and not me.’”

“It is only his brusque manner, dear; under a rough exterior he hides the kindest heart.”

“It must be so. It must be so,” slowly repeated the aged divine, in a tone which did not argue absolute conviction.

Meanwhile, Montagu, at Christ Church, was zealously preparing himself for the holy office to which he would soon be called. And a year after the installation of the new rector he received a letter which, neither in its subject-matter nor in its tone, was one which a pious father should have despatched to a boy about to become a light of the Establishment. The letter read:—

“MY DEAR MONTY,—My plans about the living have been all upset. Before offering it to the present incumbent, I made the most thorough inquiries of his medical man, and found that he could not possibly live more than two or three years. In fact, when I brought him down here he was little better than a corpse—and a corpse with a daughter as old-looking as your mother. But thanks to the change, the light duties, and the damned air of Grigsby, the old doctor seems to have taken a new lease of life, and, upon my soul, I see no reason in the world why he shouldn’t live to be a hundred. It is impossible for me to explain to the old idiot the reasons why I placed him in the position. Besides, I don’t believe that even then he would resign. I see no immediate chance of your having the living. But, of course, he may die. At all events, we must hope for the best.—Your affectionate father,

“L. de S. B.”

The above letter was written twenty-four years ago. The Rev. Montagu Bodkin is curate in a fashionable church in London. He has grey hairs on his head now. He is married to a sister of Lady Ashminton, and is greatly blessed with progeny. The living which lies in the gift of the Bodkin family, is still held by the Rev. Dionysius Shotter, D.D., a hale old man of ninety-five, who is never tired of singing the praises of his lately deceased patron, or of extolling the qualities of the air of Grigsby.

VI. _RES EST SACRA MISER_.

“YOU refuse absolutely to give up the papers. You decline to comply with the order of the Court. Then, sir, I shall commit you for contempt. In prison you will have leisure in which to reflect on the enormity of your conduct.”

“But, my lord—”

“Not another word, sir. Your duty is to respect the Court, not to argue with it. Officer, remove your prisoner!”

And William Sadd was hurried away, placed in a fly, driven off to Marston Castle, and handed over to the safe custody of the governor of that establishment. The gates of Marston Castle never closed on a prisoner more innocent of offence.

William Sadd was an inventor. His name will be chiefly known to the public in connection with a patent corkscrew, but he had devised many other useful implements from which he derived a comfortable income; for Sadd was a Scotchman, and had carefully protected his rights against all persons piratically inclined. He was born near Glasgow, where he remained for some five-and-twenty years. Then, like many of his countrymen, he came to England, and settled in the town of —, a manufacturing community in the North.

He was a sanguine, good-tempered little man, and had married a sanguine and good-tempered little wife, who bore him three sanguine and good-tempered little boys. He had at one time possessed a chum—another Scotch inventor. This man of genius—McAllister by name—had died, leaving certain papers to his friend as he lay on his death-bed. These documents, chiefly relating to uncompleted inventions, he confided to his friend with a last injunction that he should under no circumstances surrender them, but complete and patent them for the benefit of mankind and of his own pocket. Sadd gave the promise readily enough, feeling that nothing was more unlikely than that the papers would be inquired after. Much to his surprise, however, McAllister’s executors, having by some means heard of the existence of the documents, applied for them as essential evidence in a case then in hand. Sadd replied that they were not essential nor even relevant. His assertion, however, availed him nothing. Finally, the judge made an order for their production. Sadd calmly, but determinedly, refused to comply with the mandate, and was thereupon ordered to be confined in Marston Castle.

Although William Sadd felt acutely that it was an inconvenient thing to be separated from his family even for one night, he was sustained by the thought that he had done his duty, that he was the victim of a misconception on the part of the learned judge, and that his solicitor would, no doubt, set things right in the morning. When, about an hour after his introduction to the debtors and first-class misdemeanants occupying a common room in the Castle, his solicitor visited him, he became quite indignant with that luminary for suggesting that he should give up the papers. He urged the man of law to have His Lordship informed by the mouth of eminent counsel that the documents had no earthly bearing on the case.

“The whole thing’s jest re-deeckless,” said the prisoner, absolutely smiling at the absurdity of the judge’s order.

His solicitor only shook his head and went away.

Among the other prisoners William Sadd became instantly popular. He had the latest news from the outer world, and as he was going to rejoin it on the morrow, he essayed to execute all kinds of commissions for this brotherhood of misfortune. His cheery conversation had aroused the drooping spirits of those around him, when suddenly one and all became depressed again. William, following the eyes of the other victims, glanced towards the door, and, seeing a clergyman enter, instinctively rose to his feet. His example was not followed by any of the others, who turned sulkily away from beholding the ecclesiastic.

The new arrival was the Rev. Joseph Thorns, Chaplain of Marston Castle, and was familiarly alluded to by his congregation as “Holy Jo.” He was a man of small stature, and was afflicted with a deformity between the shoulders, the knowledge of which had permanently soured a temper not originally angelic. He strode up to the latest arrival, who bowed respectfully, and pulling out a note-book, asked brusquely,—

“Your name?”

The prisoner told him: but with the air of a man who regarded the formality of taking it down in a book as an operation quite superfluous, he being merely a lodger for the night.

“For what have you been committed?”

“Well, ye ken,” replied Mr. Sadd, “it’s jest a bit mistake. I’ve been neglacted by my soleecitor.”

“I see,” said the Chaplain. “Contempt of Court,” and he wrote that down opposite the inventor’s name. “What religion?”

“A’m a member of the Auld Kirk,” replied the contemptuous prisoner.

“I should have thought that even in the Auld Kirk,” said the clergyman, “they would have taught you to obey the law. Here is a book for you,” and he handed him a copy of the hymn-book used in the chapel, turned sharply round, and left the long, bare apartment, now looking longer and more bare than ever in the eyes of the latest inmate. Sadd soon, however, recovered his accustomed spirits, and eventually became sufficiently composed to look through the hymnal. As he by no means relished the chaplain’s sneer at the Church of his fathers, he observed somewhat maliciously to his companions, holding up the book of sacred songs,—

“Comparrit wi’ the Psawlms of David, they’re a wheen blithers,” an observation which was heartily applauded by the other misdemeanants as indirectly reflecting on the parson.

The next day Mrs. Sadd appeared upon the scene, conveying a basket of delicacies not included in the prison fare, and conveying also the information that it would take some days before the judge was in a temper to be addressed on the subject of Sadd’s contempt. When three days had passed, and the judge was tackled by an eminent Queen’s Counsel, he absolutely refused to reconsider his sentence.

“Let the prisoner surrender the documents, and then the Court will consider whether or not he has purged the contempt.”

Thus my lord on the Bench.

But Sadd was firm, and through his solicitor petitioned the Home Secretary. The Home Secretary, having taken three weeks to consider the matter, refused to interfere with the order of the judge.

Then the spirits of the sanguine inventor fell suddenly to zero. Nor were they manifestly revived by the daily visits of his wife, for she, poor woman, with tears in her eyes, begged and prayed her recalcitrant husband to give up the documents. But even his love for her did not induce him to forget his duty to the dead.

Sadd was committed to Marston Castle in the early part of November. And before a month had passed over his head he had become the most melancholy and morose of those resorting to the common room. The others had some hope of release. It seemed that he must remain there for ever, unless he relinquished the sacred papers. His cheeks became sunken, his shoulders bent, and his hair prematurely grey. He sat apart from his fellows and mumbled continually to himself.

It was during the first week in December that the others thought he had gone mad. His “little woman,” as he fondly called her, did not pay her customary visits. His solicitor looked in and informed him that Mrs. Sadd was dangerously ill in bed, and urgently pleaded this as an additional reason for complying with the order of the Court. Duty to the dead, love for the living—these conflicting emotions tore his heart. In an agony of spirit he motioned his solicitor to withdraw. Then he burst out crying like a child, and never again opened his lips to mortal man.

On Christmas Day there was service in the jail chapel. Mr. Thorns preached an excellent sermon from the text—“The law is good if a man use it lawfully.” This exemplary cleric dwelt with great severity on the evil that is in the world, and particularly on the evil which brought men into jails. He then proceeded to inform his attentive congregation of a fact which one would have thought was painfully obvious to them—that punishment did not fall only on the wrong doer, but also upon those who were near and dear to him. “Picture to yourselves,” went on the minister of the Gospel, “picture your wives on this holy anniversary, seated in silence and sadness, surrounded by their weeping children. Think of their untold agony as these innocent children—inheritors of a parent’s brand—put the tormenting question, ‘Where’s father?’ Picture—”

It all happened in a moment; a prisoner had burst from the benches occupied by the first-class misdemeanants; had scaled the pulpit like a wild cat; had caught the chaplain by the throat; had suddenly released his grasp; and, with a groan which those who heard it will never forget, had fallen back on to the stone pavement in front of the pulpit—dead.

When the body was searched the precious documents were found stitched beneath his waistcoat. They disclosed an unfinished scheme of the late Mr. McAllister’s for so dealing with horsehair as to render the wigs of judges not only awful to the multitude, but comfortable to the wearer.

VII. _MR. GREY_.

FOR five and twenty years, and on every day during term time, Reginald Grey took his place on the seats devoted to the Junior Bar in one of the Courts allotted to Vice-Chancellors. He did not live to attend before Vice-Chancellors in the spick-and-span mausoleum, that goes by the name of the Royal Courts of Justice. When he was at the Bar, the Vice-Chancellors sat in dingy buildings in Lincoln’s Inn Fields—the same, indeed, which have been so fully described in _Bleak House_.

To the reporters, barristers, general public, and to successive Vice-Chancellors, Reginald was as well known as “the Fields” themselves. He was a modest, self-contained man, and he never held a brief. But he must have known a wonderful deal of law, for he never missed a case, and he listened to every argument and suggestion as though Coke _in propriâ personâ_ were lecturing him upon Littleton. Even when lunch time came Reginald did not hurry out of Court with the chattering, surging crowd of litigants and lawyers’ clerks. He sat quietly in the position which he had taken up, and when the Court was quite empty, drew a penny bun from his pocket, which he devoured, gazing absently up at the roof of the Court. When the Court resumed its duties, he brushed the crumbs from his trousers, and when the Vice-Chancellor entered, he rose with the rest of the Bar and bowed to his lordship with every dignity.

Wigs, gowns, and bands are, as articles of attire, subject to the very same law of decay which affects a great-coat or a suit of sables, and the years had not spared the robes which denoted Mr. Grey’s professional status. His wig was discoloured by dust, smoke, and other accidents. Whole wisps of horsehair stuck out here and there, and one of the little tails which depend behind had fallen bodily away—had perhaps been eaten away by rats. His bands were most disreputable specimens of man-millinery; for indeed he was his own laundress, and washed those symbolic rags in his own basin, drying them before his fire in his chambers in Gray’s Inn. His stuff gown was a frayed and ragged garment; no ragman would have advanced sixpence on it. For five and twenty years had it—but there! it is about the man himself I would speak. There is something to my mind so pathetic in the sight of these forensic shreds and patches, that I cannot bear to dwell on their dilapidation.

There was only one man in Court who took the slightest notice of Mr. Grey: and he was a tall, florid, bustling, and—as he once had a case of mine, I take the liberty of adding—impudent gentleman, with an impressively loud and boisterous manner. When he saw Grey even in his scarecrow days he would sometimes throw him a hearty “How d’ye do, Grey?”—but sometimes, I imagine, he pretended not to see him. This counsel learned in the law was none other than Mr. Stanley Overton. Grey took a great interest in him, following him from court to court, and listening to him with rapt attention as he bullied his opponents and even the Court; for a more vulgar, bullying, swaggering man than Overton while he was at the Bar I never encountered. He toned down greatly after his elevation.

As Grey grew from month to month more worn and shabby, so did Overton become more sleek and resplendent. When once a man commences in earnest there is no stopping him. The proverb which tells us about the facility of the descent to Avernus is only half a truth. The ascent to the stars is equally easy, and is achieved every day both by the brave man and the bully. It is as easy as the descent, and is a very great deal more comfortable.

Some people were surprised when Overton was made a Vice-Chancellor. In fact, the surprise was very general. But it was not shared by Grey. That devoted man thought it the most natural thing in the world. He would not again have to follow this luminary in its erratic circuit from court to court. His idol was now enthroned. The worship would in future be offered in one temple, and not in two or three.

On the morning when Overton took his seat as Vice-Chancellor, Mr. Grey took _his_ place in the back benches. And when the newly-made judge entered, flushed with victory and imposing in brand-new wig and robes, the whole Bar rose with great rustling of stuff and silk. Grey rose too; and a solicitor’s clerk who sat next him saw his face turn ashen white, while two great tears rolled down his emaciated cheeks; and when he sat down he leaned his head on the ledge in front of him, covered his eyes with his poor thin hand and sighed.

At four o’clock that evening, when the Court rose to go, Grey remained in that position till everyone had left. An usher found him, and touched him on the elbow. He started, looked about him on the emptiness in a dazed sort of way, and, without saying a word, walked quietly off, the usher observing to his plump assistant that Mr. Reginald Grey was “a rum old file.”

Mr. Grey’s chambers were very, very high up in one of the gaunt sets in Gray’s Inn. Indeed, they were at the top of the building—mere garrets. When he arrived at them he found his laundress arranging the tea things—he seldom dined—and there was a decided odour of the savoury kipper about the apartment.

“Ah! Mrs. Tracy,” he said, assuming a thin affectation of gaiety, “this has been a great day for the Inn—a great day.”

“Indeed, sir,” assented that slipshod female.

“Yes, they’ve made a Vice-Chancellor of my old friend, Stanley Overton.”

“Oh, indeed, sir. Which I’m sure, I’m ’appy to ’ear it, an’ ’appy to ’ear as he’s a friend of _yours_, Mr. Grey.”

“A very old friend indeed, Mrs. Tracy. Why, we were boys together. We were at school together. We were at college together. And we were both called to the Bar the same day.”

“Law!” exclaimed Mrs. Tracy.

Indeed, what _could_ she say? Mr. Grey had always been a remarkably reserved, reticent man—a “little queer,” the good lady thought—and, beyond what was necessary in the way of speech, quite silent and inscrutable.

“Yes, indeed, ma’am,” went on the poor barrister, “and I’ll tell you something that will surprise you even more. We were both in love with the same lady.”

This indeed _did_ surprise the draggle-tailed bed-maker, and she looked her astonishment.

“It’s quite true; and the strange thing is that she preferred me, or at least she told me so. And when I left my home in Devonshire I was engaged to her.”

Mrs. Tracy did not now think that the gentleman was a “little queer”—she was convinced that he was stark staring mad. She looked apprehensively at the poor thin knife that lay on the table. Reticent! Why, the man was as garrulous and confidential as a village gossip.

He continued:

“You see, Overton was always a more pushing man, and a cleverer man too; and after we were called he borrowed a hundred pounds from me and went down to Devonshire. Some wicked stories got circulated about my doings in London, in consequence of which my sweetheart ceased to care for me, and Overton, who was always a plucky fellow, ran away with her and married her.”

His voice trembled as he narrated that episode; but he returned to the affectation of gaiety, and said,—

“Yes, Mrs. Tracy, and she’s now Lady Overton; and of course I’m very glad of it, for her sake.”

“Of course, sir,” acquiesces Mrs. Tracy.

“And the funny thing is,” he added, with the most pitiable attempt at hilarity, “he never paid me back that hundred pounds—ha, ha, ha!”

It was a mockery of laughter, the cachinnation of a ghost.

“And to-night, Mrs. Tracy,” he said, “I am going home.”

“To Devonshire, sir?”

“I _said_ home,” he answered; “but you will come as usual in the morning, and see that all is right. You can go, Mrs. Tracy. Good-bye.”

And to the utter astonishment of the poor woman, he shook hands with her, and, I fear, retained her hand for a moment, and there was the suspicion of moisture in his eyes.

The next morning, when Mrs. Tracy came to see that all was right, she found Mr. Reginald Grey stretched lifeless on the hearthrug. A revolver lay beside him, and there was a bullet through his forehead. In his left hand was an open locket, containing a little wisp of straw-coloured hair.

VIII. _THE PRODIGAL’S RETURN_.

“LEAVE my house!” shouted the Rev. Stanley Blewton to his son. Two women—they were the Prodigal’s mother and sister—wept and pleaded. But the man of God was inexorable.

“Silence!” he exclaimed. “And”—turning to his son—“never cross this threshold again.”

“Father!” cried the boy.

“Thief!” retorted the reverend gentleman.

The face of his progeny burnt red, his eyes flashed, and he clenched his fists. The women meanwhile redoubled their sobs.

“But, hold,” added Mr. Blewton, as his son turned to go. “You shall be treated beyond your deserts. Here are ten pounds. Use them discreetly. They are the last you will ever have from me.”

“Keep your money, sir,” answered Master Henry Blewton—he was but seventeen years of age, and inherited the hot temper of his parent., “Mother, good-bye. Maude, God bless you. I am innocent.”

He kissed his mother and sister. The flush of resentment had died from his face. He turned to his father, and extending his hand, said,—

“Wish me good-bye, sir. Time will set me right.”

But an ominous sneer played about the thin lips of the clergyman. He pointed to the door, and his last words to his son were,—

“I will have no parley with one who has brought dishonour on my name. Go!”

Henry Blewton cast one longing look at his mother and sister, and then walked straight into the hall, took his hat off the peg, and, as the door closed on him, Mrs. Blewton screamed in her agony, and fell into a faint that looked like death.

The Rev. Stanley Blewton was a man with a sense of honour pushed to its extremest point. He had no forgiveness for the sinner who brought discredit on an honest name. Like all good Christians, he was bound, I presume, to accept the story of the thief on the cross. But as long as there remained another text in the Bible he would never select that particular scripture as the text of a discourse. His only son had through his influence obtained a good appointment in a clerical insurance office, in which the reverend gentleman was a shareholder. He had been accused by his superiors of peculation. His father’s position, backing his remonstrances, kept the case from coming into the police court. The matter was “squared,” as the slang term has it. A public scandal was averted. But certain persons at least would know the secret. The Blewton name was smirched. This his reverence would never forgive.

Henry walked with a rapid pace down Brixton Hill, for on that reputable eminence his father’s house was situated; passed through Kennington, along the Westminster Bridge Road, crossed the bridge, passed under the shadow of the clock tower, and went up to a recruiting sergeant who stood at the corner of Parliament Street.

During that walk the circumstances of Henry Blewton underwent many important changes. To begin with, he had changed his name, his age, and his occupation. He enlisted, passed the doctor with credit, and blossomed eventually into Private Nott of a valiant regiment of the line.

From that moment all trace of Henry Blewton became lost to his friends and relatives, and for years they mourned for him as people mourn for the dead. His concluding prophecy, delivered with such meaning to his father, came true. Time set him right. He had not been a year in the army before the real delinquent was discovered; and, as the genuine sinner had no influential acquaintances on the directorate of the company, his case was remitted to the Old Bailey for the consideration of a judge and jury. He was found guilty, and sentenced to a term of imprisonment. Thus was the character of Henry Blewton vindicated.