 | CHAPTER V. Clinton Bradshaw, or, The adventures of a
lawyer |  |
5. CHAPTER V.
At night we find Bradshaw alone in his office.
I will not go out and see the ladies, thought he, for
they may think I came for compliments. “Compliments,”
said he, aloud to himself, as he looked through
his window, at the court-house opposite, and saw a
light shining through the window of the jury-room,
notwithstanding the law to the contrary—“this
long deliberation looks as if they would be unmerited,
if given. Surely, they will not let that
scoundrel off. If they do, he may, indeed, consider
himself Scot free, at liberty to commit murder and
perjury, whenever it pleases him. If he is acquitted,
he will be terribly revenged upon Fritz
and Jane Durham, in some way or other. He
would make a bold blow at me, if he dare; but that
he won't dare, unless he could take a bond of fate.
No! no! I indulge no ill feelings against such as he,
but he ought to be convicted—something must be
done for his wife and family, if he is—yes, and he
ought to be convicted on the first count. Our juries,
here, are so tender in these cases, that they scarcely
ever bring in the verdict that justice requires. If
he escapes, he may thank Mr. W—t for it. By
Jove! he's every inch a lawyer and an orator. The
as Kentuck would say.”
Here he heard a rap at his door, which he had
locked. He descended the steps, (both the rooms
were occupied by him—the lawyer who formerly
occupied the room below having taken another office,)
opened the door, and Selman entered.
“Ah! Selman, is it you? Come in? I hav'n't seen
you for some days.”
“I saw you in the court to-day, but not to speak
to you,” said Selman.
They were soon seated in Bradshaw's office, the
same in which we had the pleasure of introducing
them to our readers. Selman's face was considerably
elongated beyond its wont, and, after seating
himself, he gazed abstractedly at the lamps.
“Bradshaw,” he at length said, “I am used up,
a gone case, tetotally gone.”
“What's the matter, my dear fellow?”
“The public dinner to Clinton Bradshaw, Esq.,
has knocked me into a cocked hat—into the middle
of next week.”
“How so?”
“How so. I've been round here several times
to see you, Bradshaw, and ask your advice, but
you were out. You're the only man that I can
confide to on this subject. Why, Cavendish is such
an odd fish, and so cynical, and so little calculated
to give advice, that I wouldn't dream of speaking
to him; he thinks so little about women, that I
do believe he holds every fellow a born fool that
is troubled about them. And there's Kentuck—he's
a first rate fellow; but he'd laugh outright if I
so I've just kept it until I saw you.”
“Why, what's the matter?”
“I've got my walking papers, with a vengeance!”
“The devil! How did that happen? I remember
when I saw you at the ball—you were carrying
every thing before you,” said Bradshaw, with
a look that he had hard work to keep in proper
sympathy with Selman's.
“The day of the dinner, I got high, you know,
very high—dirn it. Well, after you left, I staid
there with the Judge and Kentuck till after dark—
and then, as the devil would have it; when wine's
in, wit's out—as the devil would have it, I went
round to Mr. Perry's. There was Miss Penelope
with Bates: the fool sticks to her as if he had a
right to her. The family were all out but she. I
took a seat, and being in high glee, I ran on like
a mill-clapper—told all about the dinner—a whole
rigmarole about Miss Durham and you—and about
you, Willoughby, and Adams. I don't know what
I didn't say, hardly, or what I did. After telling
all this, and cutting at Bates, (for I wanted to
drive him off, or out set him,) I felt a little sobered
down, that's a fact, but still high. I didn't get to
the corner of the street, above Perry's, before
Bates past me. He left just after me—he had determined
to set me out, you see. I walked slow,
and when Bates got out of sight, I turned round
and walked back towards the house. I thought it
would be a first rate chance to see Miss Penelope,
and speak right out to her on the subject.”
“What subject, Selman?”
“Why of my attachment—what other subject
had I to speak to her upon. When I drew near
the door, I thought it wouldn't do, and I determined
that I'd just pass by,—but, as bad luck would have
it,—you know it was a beautiful night—Miss Penelope
was standing at her door. As soon as she
saw me advancing towards her, she turned to go
in; I was by her side in a moment; handed her
into the room. She looked serious, but I didn't
think of it at the time. To make a long story
short, I let the cat out of the bag; made a plump
declaration, and she plumply rejected me with the
dignity of a tragedy queen. Think of that, Bradshaw,
and of your penetration. You told me, a
long time ago, you thought she liked me.”
“What did she say to you?”
“Say to me!—why, I told her of my attachment,
and asked her if I might dare hope for a return,
and she told me I could not, and that my
conduct on that evening was sufficient to determine
her, even though she had previously entertained
other sentiments towards me; she up and
told me, that she didn't think I was aware of my
situation, and she advised me the next time I dined
out, to stay out. Her very words, by Jove!”
“Did you leave, then?”
“Leave then; no! I did my best to apologize,
and told her that I might be a little excited, but
no more. `No more!' said she; `why, Mr. Bates
observed it the moment you left here.' Bradshaw,
oughtn't I to give Bates a kicking?”
“What else said Miss Penelope?”
“Why, I did all I could to get her to retract;
but she wouldn't. She said, at last, though she
could not receive me as a suiter, she would always
be glad to see me as a friend. As a friend—think
of that, Bradshaw, that's always the word when a
fellow gets his walking papers. The fact is, in
these times of saving girls in alleys, men at fires,
and making great speeches, a man of only reasonable
sense is a mere circumstance with the women.
Did you ever know a fellow to be in just such a
fix as I am?”
“Often—it's one of the commonest things in the
world.”
“Bradshaw, you know my condition at the dinner.
I was not very high, was I?”
“You were elevated a little.”
“Well, I believe I was. When I was running
on before Bates, I thought I had the world in a
sling—but I was about the soberest man you ever
saw when I left there the second time. I was
sobered instanter—I came round here to have a
talk with you about it; but you were not in. What
do you think of it, Bradshaw?”
“Selman, you don't believe in poetry, and hate
quotations, yet I think Mazeppa's remark—the
hero whose wild ride Byron so gloriously describes—
applies to your case:
Her heart, besure, is not of ice,
And one refusal's no rebuff.'
in a day. Miss Penelope likes you, my dear fellow.
She was provoked that Bates should have seen you
propriety, and of the respect due from a
lover. If Bates, now, had been tipsy, she would
probably have laughed at him.”
“Bradshaw, that's a fact,—he did go home with
her high from a party; and I heard her telling
your sister and Miss Carlton of it; and she ridiculed
him without mercy. I wonder if she told of
my being tipsy.”
“I hav'n't heard that she did.”
“Bradshaw, I wish you would see her, and speak
to her on the subject. You know I wasn't very
high at the dinner—and I swear to you I didn't
drink one drop after I left there. I determined to
see Bates, and kick him like thunder; but when I
came to think upon it, it occurred to me every
body would inquire into the fuss, and it would go
all over town, that I was as drunk as a fool, and
kicked Bates for telling; and it might bring Miss
Penelope's name in it.”
“What shall I say to Miss Penelope?”
“Just what you would say for yourself, if you
were in such a fix.”
“Well, I will do so, if you think it will be of any
service to you; but don't be too much in the dumps.
Come, let us go into the Restaurateur, and have
some Champagne and oysters.”
“I've sworn off from drinking,” said Selman,
“but I'll take some oysters.”
Bradshaw smiled—
“You think it's shutting the stable, after the
horse is gone—do you?”
“I think you will be able to catch the filly yet.
“ `The spring dew of the spirit, the heart's rain;'
and I'll tell Miss Penelope of the sternness of
your resolutions. Ah! there they are hanging at
it yet,” said Bradshaw, looking up at the jury-room,
as they passed out of his office.
They entered the oyster house, and were soon
comfortably seated in one of the boxes, with the
curtains drawn, discussing their oysters. In a few
minutes, two persons entered the oyster house, in
conversation. Bradshaw's love of approbation became
more active than his alimentiveness, to speak
phrenologically, when he heard a person whom he
knew, by his voice, to be Bates, ask,
“Mr. Talbot, how did you like the speeches, sir?”
“Mr. W—t's was a great effort,” said Talbot;
“and I wonder how the jury can deliberate so
long—he made out a plain case of excusable homicide:
his compliment to Bradshaw was rather poetical—very
poetical; poets deal best in fiction:
and as for Bradshaw's reply, I do assure you, Mr.
Bates, I have heard him and others make a better
speech at our debating society. That long compliment
to W—t, though it may all be true, was
very fulsome to a man's face; but, I suppose, as
Mr. W—t had condescended to tickle Mr. Bradshaw,
Mr. Bradshaw was, in duty, bound to do his
best to tickle Mr. W—t. Did you ever hear
any thing like that long puff upon woman? I
thought he would never get through with it (“ha!
in a court of justice, in a case of such interest
to a fellow being.”
“A man hears truth from his enemies,” whispered
Bradshaw to Selman.
“Don't you think so?” continued Talbot to
Bates.
“Decidedly so, sir; decidedly so,” said Mr. Bates.
“Did you observe how Bradshaw acted the interesting,
when he commenced his speech? His
blood's as cold as an iceberg—he has more stage
trick in him than any man I ever knew—he does
every thing for effect. It was all done to please
the ladies.”
“I was surprised to hear W—t speak so highly
of his speech,” said Bates.
“O! he's bound, in gratitude, to do so—and the
dear creatures will puff it, too, no doubt. He
showed so much chivalry, in rescuing the girl from
her paramour! I wonder what could have taken
him to — lane at such an hour? I had no idea
he frequented such places. What did Mr. W—t
say of him?”
“High compliments: that his sagacity—that was
the word he used—struck him as much as his eloquence;
and that he must have studied hard, and
practised speaking a great deal: he praised his gentlemanly
manners, too.”
“Manners! it's all manners with him,” exclaimed
Talbot.
“Mr. Talbot,” said Bates, “I wish you had been
at Mr. Perry's the other evening, the day of the
dinner to Bradshaw. Selman, who assumes to be
drunk, and behaved in a manner worthy of the
company in which he became inebriated.”
“I'll make him eat his words,” whispered Selman
to Bradshaw, rising.
“Wait a moment,” whispered Bradshaw, “till
they get deep into the narrow passage—we'll make
them back out, as a drayman makes his horse back
out of a narrow alley, with one hand on their throats
and the rod in terrorem.”
“I don't think much, between ourselves,” said
Talbot to Bates, “of the sobriety or morality of
either the orator or his friend.”
The next moment, Bradshaw, who had taken
the whole bottle of Champagne, and Selman stood
before them. Bradshaw, with folded arms, endeavouring
to suppress his passion, faced Talbot, without
saying a word.
“Listeners hear no good of themselves, Mr.
Bradshaw,” said Talbot, in much confusion.
“But sir, they have power to redress the evil,”
said Bradshaw, with an ominous calmness.
“Help me! help me! Mr. Talbot,” called out
Bates, in a smothered voice,—for Selman had
knocked him down;—and, while one hand grasped
his collar, he was doing his best with the other, in
the shape of a clenched fist, to revenge not only his
wrongs of this night; but, also, all he had suffered
from Miss Penelope's frown. “Selman! Selman!”
exclaimed Bradshaw, taking hold of him, “you are
stronger than Mr. Bates.” At this moment, while
Bradshaw stooped to take Selman from Bates,
Talbot, who stood over them, aimed a dastardly
spoilt for ever, the good looks of the lover of Miss
Penelope, had not Bradshaw, who had his eye on
Talbot, caught his leg in such a manner as to
throw him on the floor. Talbot's head struck a
chair as he fell. Starting up, nearly maddened with
mortification and pain, he seized a poker from the
stove; and made at Bradshaw, with a fell determination.
Bradshaw, since the affair in the lane
with Adams, had gone armed, suspecting that he
might be assaulted by some of Adams's gang, at
night: as Talbot advanced, he drew a pistol, and
aiming it directly at him, said—
“Keep cool, Mr. Talbot; this is a business, sir,
not to be settled with the weapon of Baillie Nicol
Jarvie—you had better put down your poker—
you are the aggressor, remember.”
As Bradshaw spoke, he returned the pistol to
his pocket, and Talbot threw down the poker.
In the mean time, Bates had escaped from the
clutches of Selman, and rushed to the stove:
though the temperature without was warm, that
within required a fire. Unmindful of this, Bates
in his rage seized from the top of the stove,
a hot brick, with the intention of hurling it at the
head of Selman, but he dropped it instantly, parting
at the same time with all the skin from the
palm of his hand. He danced about in agony,
blowing and shaking the afflicted member. Selman,
whose good humour returned the moment he
saw the discomfiture of his rival, advised him to
bathe it in brandy.
During the fracas, the proprietor of the restaureteur
keep the peace,” he exclaimed, while, “like a
fawning publican,” he took care to say or do nothing
to offend any body.
“Mr. Talbot,” said Bradshaw, “you are aware,
sir, that we were no eaves-droppers—we unintentionally
heard what you said. You seemed disregardless
who heard you, for you pronounced your
opinions in a public bar-room. I am not quarrelling
with what opinions you may be pleased to entertain
of my abilities; but, sir, those which you
expressed of my `sobriety and morality,' involve
my character—and, sir, I must have satisfaction.”
“I did not speak for you to hear,” said Talbot;
“and I did not speak publicly—for there were
none in the room, but Mr. Bates and myself, that
I knew of.”
“This is trifling, sir. I expect you to say that
you have no foundation whatever for the remarks
you made, concerning my character—that you
acted improperly in”—
“I shall say no such thing, sir,” said Talbot.
“Then, sir, now is as good a time as any. Mr.
Bates will, I have no doubt, act as your friend:
Mr. Selman will be mine. Let me prevent interruption,
sir.”
So saying, Bradshaw walked to the front door,
which was of glass, to which five or six steps descended
from the street, and fastened it.
The landlord here remonstrated.
“Don't be alarmed, Joe,” said Bradshaw to him,
for he knew him very well. “If I should be hit,
you can take me to my office, which is only a
You may consider me the challenger, (he continued,
addressing Talbot.) Here are weapons, sir, (laying
a pair of pistols before him on a table)—how
shall we fire?”
“Why, gentlemen, you are not a going to murder
each other in my house, are you?” exclaimed
the astonished landlord.
“Keep cool, Joe; no murder, man,” said Bradshaw.
Here the efforts of some one trying to open the
door, through the glass of which, the parties could
be distinctly seen, though not without descending
the steps, was heard, and a voice exclaimed—
“Halloo! what are you after? Bradshaw let
me in.”
Talbot, holding one of the pistols in his hand,
said—“Mr. Bradshaw, you are a better shot
than I.”
“Not at all, sir,” said Bradshaw. “I'm told
you can snuff a candle. I never yet performed
that fete. Wait a moment, Kentuck, (addressing
the person at the door, who was Willoughby, and
who was calling on them to open the door,) wait
a moment, and I'll let you in.”
Willoughby here broke a pane of glass, and
thrusting his head through, exclaimed—“What
are you after; are you going to fight? Bradshaw,
what's got into you?”
“Mr. Bradshaw,” said Talbot, “open the door,
sir, and let Mr. Willoughby in—he is a gentleman,
and if you are agreed, we will abide by what he
advises in this case.”
“With all my heart, sir,” said Bradshaw.
Bradshaw turned and proceeded to the door: as
he undid it, the report of the pistol in Talbot's
hand was heard, and the ball shattered a pane of
glass above his head, and so near to it that the
ball grazed his hair.
“Mr. Talbot did you fire, sir?” exclaimed Willoughby
in astonishment, as he hurried into the
room.
“I—I, fire, sir, certainly not, the pistol went
off accidentally as I was putting it down. It did
not go off in your direction, did it?”
“Rather in Bradshaw's; it hit just over his
head as you may see,” said Willoughby, pointing
to the shattered glass.
“It went off entirely accidentally, I assure you.
Were you observing me, sir?”—to the landlord.
The publican protested he was looking at Bradshaw.
“Were you, Mr. Selman?”
“No, sir,” said Selman, when Bradshaw turned
to go to the door, “I turned to look at Mr. Bates's
hand.”
Mr. Bates vowed that he looked only at his hand.
Bradshaw observed Talbot steadily, for a moment,
and then said,—“Mr. Talbot, will you state
the history of this business to Mr. Willoughby?”
Several persons passing—attracted by the report
of the pistol—had entered the house, and the
young men retired to a private room; where Talbot
made an ample apology to Bradshaw and Selman;
the latter would have forgotten to require
one from Bates, had not a private hint from Talbot
themselves satisfied, wine was ordered, and after
they had pledged each other, Bates and Talbot
withdrew.
“Let's have some more wine,” exclaimed Willoughby,
after Talbot and Bates had left. “Bradshaw,
you were for doing things in Kentuck style,
hey! And Selman went old Kentuck, too. Selman,
you've made Bates's eyes look like the bow of
promise—of all colours. He'll not be able to make
his appearance for three or four weeks; his hand
may be said to be branded by the precipitancy of
his valour. I would commend the painter to his
phiz, for the expression of unutterable wo. I wish
the Judge had been here; he has missed a circumstance.”
“Though I had my dander up when Bates called
for help, I could not but smile to see the tireless,
rapid energy with which Selman pounded him.
He seemed like a man working by the job, who
was trying his best to see how much he could accomplish
in the shortest possible time,” said Bradshaw.
“Ha! ha!” said Kentuck, “good—and then you
tell me the moment he burnt his hand, Selman
played the good Samaritan, and offered to pour
oil on the wound, in the shape of brandy. Selman,
I like you for that, my old boy—that's the true
grit—come, here's to you. May Miss Penelope
Perry—why don't you fill up your glass?”
“Thank you, Kentuck—I've a bad headach.”
“But you'll like the toast, Selman.”
“I believe I'll treat resolution,” whispered Selman
eye, he drank Willoughby's sentiment, that expressed
the hope nearest to his heart. All at once,
recollecting that he had a particular appointment,
which he should have kept an hour before, with
much reluctance, Selman departed.
“Bradshaw,” said Kentuck, when they were left
alone, “keep your eye on Talbot. It's no use, perhaps,
to blab a mere suspicion of a man; but that
pistol went off because the trigger was pulled. It's a
damning thing to say of any man; and of a man of
such respectable connexions it ought not to be said
for their sakes, if it could be helped. There's no
proof of it—but, keep your eye on him. I was in
the act of seizing him by the throat, and charging
him with the intention of shooting you; but it is
too much, too much to say of any man who is respectable,
unless you have strong proof of it.”
“I'm satisfied,” said Bradshaw, “he meant to
shoot. There was guilt in his eye—he would not
look at me. As you say, there is no use to say any
thing about it. I saw that Bates, Selman, and Joe
all suspected him—let him run—I determined not
to speak of it until you spoke. He's much less
pluck than I thought he had, Kentuck.”
“I thought once he had pluck; but, whew! it
was rather tough to hear him tell over all he had
said behind your back, as he thought, and then to
make that humble apology—but a man who will
fire at another's back will do any thing to avoid
facing him.”
“Come, let's go to my office and smoke a cigar;
I have some very superior ones, presented to me by
old Broadbelt.”
They accordingly left the oyster-house. When
they got opposite the court-house door, Bradshaw
saw Nancy, by the light of a dark lantern which
she held, in the act of fastening a large tin kettle
to a string which was lowered from the window of
the jury-room, where the jury were still locked up,
unable to agree on their verdict. In an instant
the kettle rapidly ascended, and the window was
let down.
“Ah, Nancy, is that you,” said Bradshaw.
Nancy spoke not until she reached them; when,
holding the light to their faces, she exclaimed—
“Ah, is it ye, honies? Ye see, Bradshaw, the
jury must have the creature comforts. I never
could make out the sense of the law that keeps
them there without food—but I suppose they'll
make their minds up quicker.”
“Nancy, what will be the verdict of the jury,
do you think?”
“Why, honey,” said Nancy, whispering, “do ye
see, I jist a little after dark, in sweeping out the
passage by the jury-room—Josey, ye know, has
the rheumatiz, and can't attend—in sweeping out
by their door I heard 'em counting how they stood.
There was one for letting him off; three for manslaughter,
and eight for murder. I could tell by
their talk, Bradshaw, that his treatment of the
poor thing, Jane Durham, and his trying to get old
Moll to parjure herself—and his parjuring himself,
was the thing that made again him. Ye may depend,
honey, ye spoke jist right on them pints—
you made the people feel that Johnson deserved
hanging—and, honey, he'll hang, ye may depend.”
Nancy here went on her way, and the young
men were soon seated in Bradshaw's office.
“Talbot's enmity to me,” said Bradshaw, musingly,
“arose, I suspect, from that little affair in
our debating society, when I defended Jekyl from
his sarcastic allusions to his trade. Jekyl is getting
on well with his paper, Kentuck. He has
been editing it for some time, and he improves
very much. He is decidedly a man of talents,
and has quite a turn for politics.”
“Yes,” said Willoughby, “he is a man of strong
mind, and a heart true in every beat.”
“I took tea with him the other day, and spent
all the evening with him. There he was, when
I called, seated in a neat but plain room, at a table,
not with his papers scattered about every
way, as you would suppose from his former slovenly
habits, but folded up neatly. His chin was
new-reaped, his hair tastefully combed, his shirt
collar clean,—his strong, iron features never
looked so well. By his side was his wife, one of
the neatest little women you ever saw; not what
you would call handsome, but pretty—and with
an intelligent expression, that makes her look,
when animated and pleased, really fascinating.
She's proud of him, and he's proud of her. I
left there, and, at the fashionable hour, entered
Mr. Jones's fashionable party, and grew at outs
with the gay world, and all thereunto belonging.
I have the blues, to-night, as badly as a moonstruck
poet.”
“No wonder!—a man who has been through
so much excitement as you have lately; and,”
keeps all his passions down with the rein and
bit, except his ambition, must expect the blues,
as you call them—particularly, if he has such
strong passions, in other respects, as a certain
friend of mine, they will get the bit between
their teeth, sometimes, and bound away. Bradshaw,
I hold the heart is a democracy of many
passions—and they must rule together, and upon
republican principles, to make a man happy. If
one passion obtains the mastery, it becomes a tyrant;
and the rest, though kept down for awhile,
will become turbulent and disorderly—while the
frame, like the country in which the invader has
been resisted, is wasted and worn. Don't you
think so?”
“It's not a bad notion; and I suppose, therefore,
Cassius was `lean and hungry.”'
| CHAPTER V. Clinton Bradshaw, or, The adventures of a
lawyer | |