Part 25 (1/2)
”My lord and gentlemen of the jury, I do not think it necessary to carry my case any further.”
There was no applause, the occasion was too dramatically solemn, but the impression made both upon the court and the outside public, to whom such a scene is peculiarly fitted to appeal, was deep and lasting.
Geoffrey himself was under little delusion about the matter. He had no conceit in his composition, but neither had he any false modesty. He merely accepted the situation as really powerful men do accept such events--with thankfulness, but without surprise. He had got his chance at last, and like any other able man, whatever his walk of life, he had risen to it. That was all. Most men get such chances in some shape or form, and are unable to avail themselves of them. Geoffrey was one of the exceptions; as Beatrice had said, he was born to succeed. As he sat down, he knew that he was a made man.
And yet while he walked home that night, his ears still full of the congratulations which had rained in on him from every quarter, he was conscious of a certain pride. He will have felt as Geoffrey felt that night, whose lot it has been to fight long and strenuously against circ.u.mstances so adverse as to be almost overwhelming, knowing in his heart that he was born to lead and not to follow; and who at last, by one mental effort, with no friendly hand to help, and no friendly voice to guide, has succeeded in bursting a road through the difficulties which hemmed him in, and has suddenly found himself, not above compet.i.tion indeed, but still able to meet it. He will not have been too proud of that endeavour; it will have seemed but a little thing to him--a thing full of faults and imperfections, and falling far short of his ideal. He will not even have attached a great importance to his success, because, if he is a person of this calibre, he must remember how small it is, when all is said and done; that even in his day there are those who can beat him on his own ground; and also that all worldly success, like the most perfect flower, yet bears in it the elements of decay. But he will have reflected with humble satisfaction on those long years of patient striving which have at length lifted him to an eminence whence he can climb on and on, scarcely enc.u.mbered by the jostling crowd; till at length, worn out, the time comes for him to fall.
So Geoffrey thought and felt. The thing was to be done, and he had done it. Honoria should have money now; she should no longer be able to twit him with their poverty. Yes, and a better thought still, Beatrice would be glad to hear of his little triumph.
He reached home rather late. Honoria was going out to dinner with a distinguished cousin, and was already dressing. Geoffrey had declined the invitation, which was a short one, because he had not expected to be back from chambers. In this enthusiasm, however, he went to his wife's room to tell her of the event.
”Well,” she said, ”what have you been doing? I think that you might have arranged to come out with me. My going out so much by myself does not look well. Oh, I forgot; of course you are in that case.”
”Yes--that is, I was. I have won the case. Here is a very fair report of it in the _St. James's Gazette_ if you care to read it.”
”Good heavens, Geoffrey! How can you expect me to read all that stuff when I am dressing?”
”I don't expect you to, Honoria; only, as I say, I have won the case, and I shall get plenty of work now.”
”Will you? I am glad to hear it; perhaps we shall be able to escape from this horrid flat if you do. There, Anne! Je vous l'ai toujours dit, cette robe ne me va pas bien.”
”Mais, milady, la robe va parfaitement----”
”That is your opinion,” grumbled Lady Honoria. ”Well, it isn't mine. But it will have to do. Good-night, Geoffrey; I daresay that you will have gone to bed when I get back,” and she was gone.
Geoffrey picked up his _St. James's Gazette_ with a sigh. He felt hurt, and knew that he was a fool for his pains. Lady Honoria was not a sympathetic person; it was not fair to expect it from her. Still he felt hurt. He went upstairs and heard Effie her prayers.
”Where has you beed, daddy?--to the Smoky Town?” The Temple was euphemistically known to Effie as the Smoky Town.
”Yes, dear.”
”You go to the Smoky Town to make bread and b.u.t.ter, don't you, daddy?”
”Yes, dear, to make bread and b.u.t.ter.”
”And did you make any, daddy?”
”Yes, Effie, a good deal to-day.”
”Then where is it? In your pocket?”
”No, love, not exactly. I won a big lawsuit to-day, and I shall get a great many pennies for it.”
”Oh,” answered Effie meditatively, ”I am glad that you did win. You do like to win, doesn't you, daddy, dear.”
”Yes, love.”
”Then I will give you a kiss, daddy, because you did win,” and she suited the action to the word.
Geoffrey went from the little room with a softened heart. He dressed and ate some dinner.