Mrs. Gray was certainly somewhat disappointed in the style of the lawyer's office into which she was ushered with so much ceremony. A rusty old leathern chair; a table with the green baize half worn off, with a bundle or two of dusty papers upon it; a standish full of dry ink, and a steel pen rusted down to the nib, all veiled thickly with dust, did not entirely meet her ideas of the prosperous business she had antic.i.p.ated. The lawyer saw this, and hastened to sweep away all unfavorable impressions from her mind.

"This is my work-shop, you see, madam, the tread-mill in which I grind out my humble bread and my blessed charities--no foppery, no carpets, nothing but the barest necessaries of the profession. I leave easy-chairs, &c., for those who have the conscience to wring them from needy clients. You comprehend, dear lady. Oh! it is pleasant to feel that now and then in this cold world, a good life meets with appreciation. John, bring me another chair?"

"My young man," whom the lawyer had mentioned so ostentatiously, came forward in the shape of a lank Irish lad, taller than his master by three inches, which might be accurately measured by the s.p.a.ce visible between the knee of his nether garments and the top of his gaiter boots.

The closet door, from which he issued, revealed a lurking encampment of dusty bottles, a broken washstand, and two enormous demijohns, the wickerwork suspiciously moist, and with a stopper of blue gla.s.s chained to the neck.

The lawyer made a quiet motion with his hand, which sent the Irish boy in haste to close the door. Then taking the unstable chair which the lad had disinterred from the closet, he sat down cautiously, as a cat steals to the lap of her mistress, whose temper is somewhat doubtful, and glided into the business on hand. The Irish boy stood meekly by, profiting by the scene with a knowing look, which deepened into a grin of delight as he saw Mrs. Gray draw forth her pocket-book, and place bank-notes of considerable amount into the lawyer's hand. When the good woman had thus deposited half the sum which the lawyer a.s.sured her would save old Mr. Warren's life, she arose with a sigh of profound satisfaction, shook out her voluminous skirts, and left the office, fully satisfied with the whole transaction.

The lawyer and "his man" followed her to the door. When she disappeared down the street, the lawyer turned briskly, and in the joy of his heart seized the Irish boy by the collar that had lately graced his own neck, and gave him a vigorous shake.

"What are you grinning at, you dog? How dare you laugh at my clients?

There now, get along; take that and fill both the demijohns; buy a clean pack of cards, and a new supply of everything. Do you hear?"

The Irish boy shook himself back into his coat, and seizing the money, plunged into the street, resolved not to return a shilling of change without first securing the month's wages, for which his master was, as usual, in arrears.

The lawyer threw himself into the leathern chair which Mrs. Gray had just left, stretched forth his limbs, half closed his eyes, and rubbing his palms softly together, sat thus full ten minutes caressing himself, and chuckling over the morning's business.

CHAPTER x.x.xII.

THE LAWYER'S VISIT TO HIS CLIENT.

I am his wife; full forty years This head was pillowed on his breast; I shared his joy, I shared his tears, And in deep sorrow loved him best.

Yes, tempter, I am still his wife!

I hold the glory of his name!

To purchase liberty or life I would not dim its light with shame!

If those who think that happiness exists only in those external circ.u.mstances that surround a man, could have seen old Mr. Warren in his prison, they would have been astonished at the placidity of his countenance, at the calm and holy atmosphere that had made his cell emphatically a home. His wife and grandchild haunted it with their love, and it seemed to him--so the old man said--that G.o.d had never been quite so near to him as since he entered these gloomy walls. He might die; the laws might sacrifice him, innocent as he was; but should this happen, he only knew that G.o.d permitted it for some wise purpose, which might never be explained till the sacrifice was made.

True, life was sweet to the old man; for in his poverty and his trouble two souls had clung to him with a degree of love that would have made existence precious to any one. All that earth knows of heaven, strong, pure affection had always followed him. It is only when the soul looks back upon a waste of buried affection, a maze of broken ties, that it thirsts to die. Resignation is known to every good Christian, but the wild desire which makes men plunge madly toward eternity, comes of exhausted affections and an insane use of life. Good and wise men are seldom eager for death. They wait for it with still, solemn faith in G.o.d, whose most august messenger it is.

There was nothing of bravado in the old man's heart; he made no theatrical exhibition of the solemn faith that was in him; but when visitors pa.s.sed the open door of his cell--for, being upon the third corridor, there was little chance of escape--and saw him sitting there with that meek old woman at his feet, and an open Bible on his lap, a huge, worn book that had been his father's, they paused involuntarily, with that intuitive homage which goodness always wins, even from prejudice.

A few comforts had been added to his prison furniture; for Mrs. Gray was always bringing some cherished thing from her household stores. A breadth of carpet lay before the bed; a swing shelf hung against the wall, upon which two cups and saucers of Mrs. Gray's most antique and precious china, stood in rich relief; while a pot of roses struggled into bloom beneath the light which came through the narrow loop-hole cut through the deep outer wall.

Altogether that prison-cell had a home-like and pleasant look. The old man believed that it might prove the gate to death, but he was not one to turn gloomily from the humble flowers with which G.o.d scattered his way to the grave. He lifted his eyes gratefully to every sunbeam that came through the wall; and when darkness surrounded him, and that blessed old woman was forced to leave him alone, he would sit down upon his bed, and murmur to himself, "Oh! it is well G.o.d can hear in the dark!"

Thus as I have said, the time of trial drew near. The prisoner was prepared and tranquil. The wife and grandchild were convinced of his innocence, and full of gentle faith that the laws could never put a guiltless man to death. Thus they partook somewhat of his own heavenly composure. Mrs. Gray was always ready to cheer them with her genial hopefulness; and Robert Otis was prompt at all times with such aid as his youth, his strength, and his fine, generous nature enabled him to give.

One morning, just after Mrs. Gray had left the cell--for she made a point of accompanying the timid old woman to the prison of her husband--Mr. Warren was disturbed by a visitor that he had never seen before. It was a quiet demure sort of personage, clothed in black, and with an air half-clerical, half-dissipated, that mingled rather incongruously upon his person. He sat down by the prisoner, as a hired nurse might cajole a child into taking medicine, and after uttering a soft good morning, with his palm laid gently on the withered hand of the old man, he took a survey of the cell.

Mrs. Warren stood in one corner, filling the old china cup from which her husband had just taken his breakfast, with water; two or three flowers, gathered from the plants in Mrs. Gray's parlor windows, lay on the little table, whose gentle bloom this water was to keep fresh. To another man it might have been pleasant to observe with what care this old woman arranged the tints, and turned the cup that its brightest side might come opposite her husband.

But the lawyer only saw that she was a woman, and reflected that the s.e.x might always be found useful if properly managed. Instead of being struck by the womanly sweetness of her character, and the affection so beautifully proved by her occupation, he began instantly to calculate upon the uses of which she might be capable.

"Rather snug box this that they have got you in, my good friend," said the lawyer, turning his eyes with a sidelong glance on the old man's face, and keeping them fixed more steadily than was usual with him, for it was seldom a face like this met his scrutiny within the walls of a prison. "Trust that we shall get you out soon. Couldn't be in better hands, that fine old friend of yours, a woman in a thousand, isn't she?--confides you to my legal keeping entirely!"

"Did Mrs. Gray send you? Are you the gentleman she spoke to about my case?" inquired the old man, turning his calm eyes upon the lawyer, while Mrs. Warren suspended her occupation and crept to the other side of her husband. "She wished me to talk with you. I am glad you have come!"

"Well, my dear old friend, permit me to call you so--for if the lawyer who saves the man from the gallows isn't his friend, I should like to know who is. When shall we have a little quiet chat together?"

"Now, there will be no better time!"

"But this lady; in such cases one must have perfect confidence. Would she have the goodness just to step out while we talk a little?"

"She is my wife. I have nothing to say which she does not know!"

answered the old man, turning an affectionate look upon the grateful eyes lifted to his face.

"Your wife, ha!" cried the lawyer, rubbing his palms softly together, as was his habit when a gleam of villainy more exquisite than usual dawned upon him. "Perhaps not, we shall see! may want her for a witness! but we can tell better when the case is laid out. Now go on; remember that your lawyer is your physician; must have all the symptoms of a case, all its parts, all its capabilities. Now just consider me as your conscience; not exactly that, because one sometimes cheats conscience, you know--after all there is nothing better--think that I am your lawyer--that I have your life in my hands--that I must know the truth in order to save it--cheat conscience, if you like, but never cheat the lawyer who tries your case, or the doctor who feels your pulse."

"I have nothing to conceal. I am ready to tell you all," answered the old man.

The calmness with which this was said took the lawyer somewhat aback. He had expected that more of his cajoling eloquence would be necessary, before his client would be won to speak frankly. His astonishment was greatly increased, therefore, when the old man in his grave and truthful way related everything connected with the death of William Leicester exactly as it had happened. Nothing could be more discouraging than this narrative, as it presented itself to the lawyer. Had the man been absolutely guilty, his counsel would have found far less difficulty in arranging some grounds of defence. Without some opening for legal chicanery the lawyer felt himself lost. Unprincipled as he was, there still existed in his mind some little feeling of interest in any case he undertook, independent of the money to be received. He loved the excitement, the trickery, the manoeuvering of a desperate defence. He had a sort of fellow feeling for the clever criminal that sharpened his talent, and sent him into court with the spirit of an old gambler.

But a case like this was something new. He did not for a moment doubt the old man's story; there was truth breathing in every word, and written in every line of that honest countenance. Indeed it was this very conviction that dampened the lawyer's ardor in the case. It seemed completely removed from his line of position. He had so long solemnly declared his belief in the innocence of men whom he knew to be steeped in guilt, that he felt how impossible it was for him to utter the truth before a jury with any kind of gravity. His only resource was to make this plain, solemn case as much like a falsehood as possible.

"And so you were entirely alone in the room?"

"Entirely."

The lawyer shook his head.

"You have no witnesses of his coming in, or of the conversation, except this old lady and your grandchild?"

"None!"

"Your neighbors, how were you situated there? No kind fellow in the next cas.e.m.e.nt who heard a noise, and peeped through the key-hole, ha?"

The old man looked up gravely, but made no answer.

"I tell you," said the lawyer sharply, for he was nettled by the old man's look, "yours is a desperate case!"

"I believe it is," was the gentle reply.

"A desperate case, to be cured only with desperate measures. Some person must be found who saw this man strike the blow himself."

"But who did see it, save G.o.d and myself?"

"Your wife there, she must have seen it. The door was not quite closed; she was curious--women always are; she looked through, saw the man seize the knife; you tried to arrest his hand; he was a strong man; you old and feeble. You saw all this, madam!"

The old woman was stooping forward, her thin fingers had locked themselves together while the lawyer was speaking, and her eyes were fixed on him, dilating like those of a bird when the serpent begins its charm. At first she waved her head very faintly, thus denying that she had witnessed what he described; then she began to stoop forward, a.s.senting, as it were, to the force and energy of his words, almost believing that she had actually looked through the door and saw all that the lawyer a.s.serted.

"No, she did not see all this," answered the prisoner, quietly; "and if she had, how would it be of use?"