Valerie French (1923) (9 page)

"'Streuf," said one of the 'juniors' in the adjoining room. "If 'e ain't done in that bell. An' the place where I got it, they said I could stan' on it."

"Yes, but they didn't say 'e could," snapped his superior, hurrying out of the office.

A moment later he stood before his master.

"Destroy that bell," said Sir Andrew, jerking his head at the corner. "And sack the fool who bought it. Oh, and return that brief, and tell 'em that Lincoln's Inn 's the other side of the street."

Mr. Junket swallowed.

"I did remark, sir," he said, "that it was a point of Chancery law, but they said they knew that, and they’d rather 'ave your opinion than any in Lincoln's Inn."

"Lying hounds," replied Sir Andrew. "What they mean is, every one else is away."

"I don't think it's that, sir," cautiously ventured the clerk. "There's plenty the other side would give an opinion. But Mr. Firmer 's attendin' to this 'imself, an' you know what 'e thinks of you, sir," he added proudly.

"I don't!" shouted Sir Andrew. "I haven't the faintest idea. Send me the shorthand clerk. If they like to waste their money, that's their look-out."

"Very good, sir."

Mr. Junket retired precipitately, and a moment later the shorthand writer appeared. As he closed the door, Sir Andrew began to dictate....

"
My opinion is valueless. I know little of Chancery doctrines, and, happily, nothing of those appointed to administer them. It is a principle of law that
... (here followed a masterly 'opinion,' dealing root and branch with the matter and setting intricacy by the ears) ...
In these circumstances, provided that the Court before which the case would ordinarily come has discretion sufficient to enable it to distinguish right from wrong, your client will not be permitted to proceed with the development of his property, so long as the lord of the manor, however base his motive, requests that such permission may be denied
. That's all. Send Junket."

The senior clerk reappeared.

"I told you to destroy that bell," said Sir Andrew. "Why the devil don't you do it?" Junket made a rush for the corner. "I'm leaving in five minutes. Produce it to me destroyed before I go."

"Very good, sir." Arrived at the door, the clerk hesitated. "There's— there's rather an urgent case, sir," he said uneasily, peering at a pile of papers upon his master's table. "A case to advise— from Mincing's. They've been pressing me now, sir, for over a week. An' another from— "

"D'you want to kill me?" demanded Sir Andrew. "This is the Long Vacation. If they don't want to wait, they can take their matters elsewhere. I won't do another stroke until to-morrow. Destroy that bell."

"Very good, sir."

The next moment Junket was in the clerks' room.

"'Ere, George," he said, handing the bell to his subordinate. "Take that out an' break it. Look sharp."

"'Break it'?" said George, staring at the battered instrument. "But it's broke already."

"Never mind about that," cried Junket, thrusting the bell into his hand. "'E wants it 'destroyed.' 'E's got to see it 'destroyed' before 'e goes. An' 'e's goin' in four minutes. For gauze sake, be quick. You know what 'e is." He turned to the shorthand writer, who was transcribing the 'opinion.' "Do the las' paragraph, Jim, 's quick as you can. So 's I can get 'im to sign it before 'e goes."

"But look 'ere," protested George, "I ain't a blecksmith. 'Ow can I—"

"Look 'ere," rejoined his senior, taking out his watch. "D'you want the bird? 'Cause, if 'e asks for that bell before it's ruined, you can 'ave it in one. Take the blighter out," he added fiercely, "an' keep on chuckin' it down on the flegstones till—"

A sudden bellow from Sir Andrew's room threw the three clerks into a panic.

George rushed out of the Chambers: Jim drove his pen like a madman; while the unfortunate Junket wiped his brow and, nervously adjusting his collar, prepared to answer the summons.

Beyond, however, that Sir Andrew observed darkly that the bell was due to be demolished in three minutes' time, Mr. Junket was merely ordered to send four 'cases to advise' to his master's private house.

The clerk withdrew relievedly.

George, meanwhile, was working feverishly.

After four violent collisions with the flags, the condition of the bell seemed rather improved than anything else, and, what was worse, upon being tested, it rang smartly.

George broke into a sweat.

Indeed, but for the sight of a dray standing in Middle Temple Lane, he would, I think, have retired at once from the Temple and the unequal contest...

Necessity knows no law.

A moment later the bell was in position beneath the off hind wheel, and George was backing the horses like an Artillery driver under fire....

Sir Andrew surveyed the fragments with grim satisfaction. Then he signed his 'opinion' and called for his hat....

As he stepped on to the Embankment, a ragged fellow passed him, with misery in his eyes.

The K.C. called him back. He came uncertainly.

"What's the matter with you?"

The wretched eyes avoided Sir Andrew's look.

"I'm— I'm 'ungry," faltered their owner, and turned away.

Sir Andrew counted ten shillings and put them into his hand.

"That's for food," he said shortly. "Not drink."

He turned to wave his stick at a passing cab....

A moment later he was being carried westward at an unlawful pace.

Here let me say that Lady Touchstone's courage was of a high order. Danger, for instance, merely sharpened her wits. I do not think that she knew any physical fear. Yet, as she frankly admitted, each visit she paid her dentist undoubtedly shortened her life. To point the paradox, her anticipation of the ordeal was always far worse than the encounter. Compared with that of the waiting-room, the atmosphere of the condemned hold seemed to her almost jovial. Indeed, she so much abhorred the former that she was always most careful to arrive late, with the result that her detention in the ante-chamber of horrors was seldom more than a matter of sixty seconds. How, in the teeth of such provision, upon this particular morning she came to make such a mistake is incomprehensible, but it is a hard fact that she alighted in Brook Street precisely at four minutes past eleven, in painless ignorance that her vivisection had been fixed for a quarter to twelve.

For a while she fully believed that she was being kept waiting, but when twenty minutes had passed and she was still unsummoned, she rang the bell and inquired if Mr. Sleeseman was aware of her presence....

Upon learning the awful truth, the unfortunate lady's first impulse was to withdraw; but, realizing that, if in her present nervous condition she emerged into the smiling streets, she would never have the fortitude to re-enter the house that morning, she sank into a chair and began to pluck at the pages of a periodical upon which the blessed gift of immortality had been apparently conferred.

Ten frightful minutes had slunk by, and Lady Touchstone, who had the room to herself, was half-way to nervous prostration— starting at every footfall, finding cause for nameless suspicion in every unfamiliar sound— when a bell was pealed with great violence and a blow upon the front door shook the house to its foundations.

After one tremendous bound the poor lady's heart stood still....

A moment later came a rush of steps, the front door was opened, and an uproar of furious quarrelling was launched into the hall.

"Summon me, then," roared Sir Andrew, "you slanderous thief! You know who I am. Go into Court and swear that I've broken your springs. A-a-ah, you blackmailing villain!"

The door was slammed with the shock of an explosion, tremendous footsteps pounded along the passage, and an instant later Sir Andrew was ushered into the room.

More dead than alive, Lady Touchstone, who had risen to her feet and stumbled towards the window, regarded his entrance with a palpitating indignation which knew no law.

The giant flounced into a chair and closed his eyes....

"You brute," said Lady Touchstone, deliberately.

At the third attempt Sir Andrew recovered his voice.

"Were you addressing me?"

"I was," said Lady Touchstone.

Sir Andrew rose to his feet.

"Madam," he said, "how dare you?"

"If you don't like it," said Lady Touchstone, who was feeling much better, "you can leave the room. You're a brute."

"A brute?" said Sir Andrew, taking a step forward.

"A brute," said Lady Touchstone. "And don't talk about 'daring' to me. You ought to be on your knees, suing for pardon. This isn't a bull-ring. It's— it's a confessional."

"It's a public— "

"No, it isn't," was the disconcerting reply. "I've no doubt you'd feel more at home if it were. It's a place of mental affliction for patients who have a sense of their duty towards their neighbours. I suppose you're here with the object of receiving attention: apparently the idea exhilarates you. That alone is indecent. But when you flaunt such monstrous emotion under the noses of more reasonably-minded beings, it's— it's worse than brawling."

Sir Andrew Plague gasped. His eyes began to protrude.

"Brawling?" he repeated, as though unable to believe his ears. "Brawling, madam? What do you mean— 'brawling'?"

"Brawling," said Lady Touchstone, "is the offence of quarrelling in a noisy and indecent manner upon holy ground. They used to do it at that very high church near the Cromwell Road. I say advisedly that your behaviour is still more abominable. At least, they had the excuse of religious fervour."

"Madam," said Sir Andrew, in a shaking voice, "you presume upon the privilege of your sex. I am not in the habit of having my conduct criticized, still less of hearing it condemned."

"The more's the pity," flashed Lady Touchstone, bristling. "If those unfortunate enough to be associated with you occasionally corrected your failings, you would be less of a menace to society."

"Goats and monkeys!" yelled Plague.

Lady Touchstone stifled a scream.

"How dare you shout at me?" she demanded. "How dare you?"

With a frightful effort the lawyer mastered his voice.

"Madam," he said thickly, "you have spoken of bull-rings and brawling. Twice you have used the word 'indecent' in a context and with a meaning which admitted no possibility of misconstruction. Finally you have thought proper to style me 'a menace to society.' Madam, this may not be slander, but it is vulgar abuse, and while the Law will take no— "

"You will please," said Lady Touchstone, "withdraw that expression. I believe it to be a purely legal term, but it offends me."

For a long minute the two eyed one another across the mahogany table.

Then—

"I beg your pardon," said Plague uncertainly.

Lady Touchstone inclined her head.

"I regret," she said, "that I cannot return the compliment. Your conduct has been outrageous. Regardless of the feelings of others who, cast in a less— er— vigorous mould than yourself, may be awaiting in agony the attention to which you apparently look forward— "

"I don't. I loathe it. And my conduct's not been outrageous. You've no right to— "

"I have every right. You might have shattered my nerves. Because you have been annoyed, why should I suffer? Why should you vent your vile wrath— "

"Madam," cried Plague, trembling, "you go too far. If you have been inconvenienced by overhearing such protest as I thought fit to lodge against a scandalous attempt at blackmail, that is regrettable. It confers upon you no authority to insult a complete stranger, whose rights to the quiet enjoyment of this chamber are co-equal with yours, and— "

"When you speak," said Lady Touchstone, "of 'the quiet enjoyment of this chamber,' you make me feel faint. So please don't do it again. I say you've behaved disgracefully. What did you knock for?"

Sir Andrew swallowed.

"To gain admittance," he said.

"Then why did you ring?"

"I refuse— "

"Why did you ring?"

"For the same purpose."

"Did you really think that your usage of the bell could be misconstrued?"

"I was particularly anxious," blurted Sir Andrew Plague, "not to be kept waiting."

"Rot," said Lady Touchstone. "You were particularly anxious to vent your wrath— vile wrath. Why did you shout at the potman?"

"It wasn't a potman. It was— "

"Cabdriver, then. Was he deaf?"

"He was da— extremely insolent."

"Was he deaf?"

"Not that I know of."

"Of course he wasn't," said Lady Touchstone. "Why did you slam the door?"

"Damn it, madam, I— "

"Don't swear at me. Why did you irrupt into this room?"

"I didn't," cried Plague, writhing.

"Don't be absurd," said his tormentor. "Your entrance was barbarous. You knocked, you slammed the door, you raved at the potman and irrupted into this room— all by way of indulging your horrible wrath. It's as plain as a pikestaff."

"It isn't at all. And it wasn't a— "

"Don't contradict me," snapped Lady Touchstone, "because I won't have it." Sir Andrew choked. "Besides, you've been rude enough. You haven't a leg to stand on. And if I've done anything to show you the error of your ways, this encounter, however distasteful, will not have been endured in vain."

With that, she picked up a paper, shook it into position, and took her seat upon a settle as if it had been a throne.

"It
wasn't
a potman," said Sir Andrew doggedly. "It was a cabdriver."

My lady replied with a look of unutterable contempt....

Then the door was opened and the servant appeared.

Head in air, Lady Touchstone swept from the room....

For a minute the giant stood as she had left him. Then he picked up his hat and stole out of the house.

THAT SIR ANDREW PLAGUE swore by his new secretary was common knowledge. A good many others, who had to do with the knight, also swore by his secretary— the tall, good-looking fellow with the fine grey eyes, who stood them in so good stead. Indeed, though it was not yet one month since Jonathan Wood, Gentleman, had entered the K.C.'s service, between him and his testy patron there was existing an understanding which was almost too good to be true. Sir Andrew Plague, who despised most men and regarded none, actually respected Jonathan. The latter was, of course, a squire in a million— faithful, patient, swift-brained, ridiculously honest.... What turned the squire into the compeer— an office no man had ever hitherto filled— was his strength of character. He would stake his job— which is to say, his livelihood— upon a point of principle. He did so stake it a dozen times in the day. The giant in his wrath gave him an unjust order: respectfully enough, Jonathan quietly declined to carry it out.... After a little the storms had become less frightful, and twice in the last week Sir Andrew had laughed. (This the steward, who had been told by the butler, flatly refused to credit. But then he was a sceptical fellow, and had served Sir Andrew Plague for twenty years.) There was no doubt about it. Beneath his secretary's influence the leopard was changing his spots. He was, moreover, lying down, not with a kid, but with a blood-horse. Between the two of them a little white dog with a black patch made himself thoroughly at home....