 | CHAPTER XIX.
THE LAWYER TURNS STAGE-MANAGER. A woman in armor |  |
19. CHAPTER XIX.
THE LAWYER TURNS STAGE-MANAGER.
LAUNT folded his manuscript and returned
it to his breast-pocket. Both
looked up at the clock; it was half-past
ten.
“Who can be coming at this hour?” murmured
Helen.
As Rikka had evidently gone to sleep in her
own domain, Miss Dimmock herself opened the
doors, and with unspoken surprise admitted
Mr. Chancery.
He seemed actually to sparkle, this deliberate,
middle-aged man, as he entered the warm room
and was made comfortable before the fire. He
shook hands with Helen and with Launt, making
no apologies for beginning the evening with
them at such an untimely hour, but seeming to
feel himself perfectly welcome.
By the time he had gotten his stiffened fingers
out of his gloves, however, the lawyer again
predominated over the man. His St. Nicholas
he replied but briefly to Helen's remarks
or to Launt's high-spirited sallies.
As he warmed himself his eye dissected the
memorial wreath hanging above the chimney,
without a shade of emotion.
“It is nearly a year since your sister's child
went away, is it not, Miss Dimmock?”
“A year to-night,” replied Helen.
“A year to-night. Have you heard from
him?”
“Not once.”
“Ah!” And then the matter seemed to
drop from his mind.
Helen took up the coal-tongs and put some
more lumps of coal on the fire.
It was Launt's usual time for departure, but
he lingered in his chair.
An embarrassed silence fell upon Helen and
him, which the lawyer seemed not at all to share.
It did not enter Helen's mind that this unusual
visitor might have some message about George.
She was so hopeless about the child that she expected
neither good nor bad tidings.
The heat of the fire while it seasoned Mr.
Chancery seemed also to thaw his benevolence.
“Winter is upon us early this year, to a certainty,”
he remarked after there had been some
minutes of silence. “You wouldn't keep your
enemy on your door-step such a night as this,
would you, Miss Dimmock? I know that you
who was to wait outside within call until I was
ready for him. With your permission I will
call him now.”
As he rose, Launt regarded him with utter
astonishment, but tremors of undefined apprehension
ran through Helen.
“Are you leading a masquerade, Mr. Chancery?”
exclaimed Stanthorne, “or is there
some deeper mystery afoot? The Courier has
been languishing for a sensation for some time,”
producing a note-book and laughing up at his
friend's unmoved physiognomy; “so if you've
been so good as to plan a murder or a burglary,
I'm happy to be on the spot to get it first-hand,
and of course you won't object to my interviewing
you.”
“You may confine your enterprise to taking
a full and accurate account of all which is about
to transpire before you, my dear fellow,” replied
the lawyer. “I haven't time for making explanations
or excuses. I simply came here the
moment I had all my matter in hand. If Miss
Dimmock thinks to-morrow morning that I intruded
on her at an unseasonable hour with this
business, I will ask her pardon. At present,
however, I only ask her permission to bring my
friend into this room.”
Helen bent her head, and the lawyer went to
the street-door, where for an instant he cut the
night air with shrill whistles.
Helen and Launt exchanged silent opinions.
She sat opposite Launt at the right of the grate,
and she lifted her eyes to the wreath overhead,
signifying that the lawyer's conduct had some
connection with the events which it commemorated.
Launt was incredulous, but he was
puzzled and alert. What Helen divined by intuition,
he, as a man, would have to prove to
himself by reason or experience. He shook his
head, and made a comical grimace to signify
that their friend was playing some middle-aged
prank.
One or two quick words were spoken at the
street-door, and then four feet trod upon the
hall matting.
Mr. Chancery re-entered, and behind him,
towering above his head, came a larger man; a
man with big, comfortable figure and unmistakably
swollen face, who pinched his frosty
mustache with well-gloved fingers and tried to
rally his insolence, but who sunk to servility as
he glanced around the room and met Helen
Dimmock's distended eyes.
She started from her seat and turned very
white. Had he come to announce George's
death to her? Why did he slink behind the
lawyer in that way? What had he done with
the child? It seemed that her galloping heart
would trample her breath out. She did not
speak, but her eyes shot a hundred stinging
questions through G. Guest, Esq.
“My friend, G. Guest, Esq.,” announced the
lawyer, presenting him by the arm. “He will
be seated, and we will at once proceed to business.”
Mr. Chancery drew up a chair for him at the
table, and G. Guest, Esq., sat down, disposing
of his legs in the old graceful fashion, but keeping
his half-shut eyes assiduously on the grate.
He did not say a word; his volubility seemed
weighted down by some heavier force than his
very evidently increased grossness and indolence.
Launt went over to Helen and stood with his
hand on her chair. It was a boyish movement,
but she thanked him for it in her heart.
Mr. Chancery having looked at the gas and
screwed it up and down till it suited his eyes,
and having also seated himself comfortably at
the table, took a packet of papers from the inner
pocket of his coat.
“Miss Dimmock,” he began, “will not object
to my recalling to her mind some facts concerning
her parentage and early history. These
notes in my hand are taken from accurate statements
made by sworn parties.
“In the year of our Lord 1840, there came
to the village of Ripley, Massachusetts, two
brothers, Victor and Hugh Lorraine. Both
were widowers, but the second had a daughter.
They were Frenchmen, possessed of small
means, but determined to retrieve their fortunes
But Victor pushed across the continent, while
Hugh remained in Ripley.
“In the year 1849, the daughter of Hugh
Lorraine—Louise Helene Annette Lorraine—
was married to John Dimmock, M.D., of Ripley,
Massachusetts. Hugh Lorraine died in this
same year. And the next year a daughter was
born to this pair and was christened Helen.
Her mother died in giving her birth.
“John Dimmock afterwards married his cousin,
and had a second daughter born to him, whom
he also christened for her mother, Cornelia.
Helen and Cornelia Dimmock were, therefore,
half-sisters.
“While these children were yet very young,
Victor Lorraine returned from California, where
he had been carrying on successful speculations,
and was much touched to find the little Helen
the only remaining one of his house. He would
have adopted her had her father allowed him to
do so.
“While he remained in the family, he was
much confused between the names of the two
children. Nellie became Nina to him, and Nina
Nellie. He always called the one by the name
of the other. He returned soon to the Pacific
coast, and they probably retained no recollection
of him. He was a quiet, eccentric man,
and the family heard no more of him.
“That suffices for the history of the family.
“Now, very little more than a year ago, said
Victor Lorraine died in San Francisco, devising
all his property by will to his niece's daughter.
“I have procured a copy of this will. You
may see,” observed Mr. Chancery, handing the
document to Helen Dimmock, who took it in
trembling hands, “that he names his heiress
`Nina Dimmock,' his memory proving treacherous
on the names again—but designates her
strictly as the daughter of John Dimmock, M.D.,
of Ripley, Massachusetts, and Louise Helene Annette
Lorraine Dimmock, of Marseilles, France.
The name is several times repeated, where he
makes repeated mention of his `beloved niece,'
and the estate is secured to the daughter of this
niece, and to her heirs after her forever.
“About this time, my friend, G. Guest, Esq.,
who was doing the travelling business of a wine
firm, and who rambled into San Francisco
hoping to mend those prospects which he had
ruined by marrying an heiress and getting her
disinherited” (Helen was astonished to see G.
Guest, Esq., wince), “my friend, I say, got
scent of this matter, and before it could be
largely advertised, laid claim to the estate as
the husband of the person designated.
“I will do my friend the justice to say that at
first he believed the claim perfectly valid. For
he would not have given himself the trouble he
took, he would not have planned and executed
such attacks as he made, he would not have
deserted wife as he did, had he known he was
merely harvesting a fortune into the lap of
another.
“Those who held the estate in trust were
easily satisfied by his proofs and representations,
and he hastened to follow up the clues to his
wife.
“He found her here. In order to enjoy her
property he must get possession of her, and finding
her in an altered state of mind regarding
himself, he felt he could only accomplish this by
threatening to seize her child. He could take
the child, and the mother would speedily follow.
That was your course of reasoning, was it not,
my friend?”
Whenever the lawyer said “my friend” to or
of him, G. Guest, Esq., shrunk under the thong
of the sarcasm as if it had been a whip-thong.
Yet the lawyer spoke it without any emotion.
“The sudden death of the mother, of course,
gave him greater liberty. The child was her heir,
and he was the child's heir. So, whether the
child lived or died, he was safely established.
He took immediate possession of both child and
estate, and entered into the reward of his labors.
Excuse me, my friend,” said Mr. Chancery,
with a slanting look in the direction of G.
Guest, Esq., “lawyers must dissect motives, even
though they cut through such sensibilities as
yours.
“Now, if you will pardon me for the frequent
use of the pronoun I, the remainder of this
evidence may be shortened.
“I am fond of tracing rights and kinships. I
would go out of my way to find the connection
between appearances which are of very little importance
to most observers. This case came
under my notice a year ago; and with what
leisure I could command I have traced it up, and
established, in the conviction of all parties, you,
Helen Dimmock, as the unmistakable heiress of
the Victor Lorraine estate—into possession of
which you can enter as soon as you choose!”
With this brief mention of his services, the
lawyer got up and extended his hands toward
Helen and Launt; they were taken and held
tremulously and gratefully.
Launt even so far forgot the dignity of the law
as to thump this friend admiringly on the shoulder,
and to declare in his free and easy fashion
that Myron D. Chancery would be an ornament
to journalism itself!
G. Guest, Esq., twisted his tawny mustache
with an assumption of disdain, but he shrunk
lower in his chair.
Helen's eyes, imploring to know one thing,
did not remove from the lawyer's face. Fortune's
turn in her favor she felt with joyful and
confused under consciousness, but her whole
mind was drawn tensely to one question.
Mr. Chancery answered her voiceless cry by
immediately proceeding with his business.
“We now come to the consideration of my
friend, G. Guest, Esq.,” said he. “G. Guest,
Esq., has a healthy little son, who, by this
reverse, becomes a great burden on his hands.
The child is not, after all, heir to vast properties,
and the father, very sensibly for one in his precarious
circumstances, feels a desire to provide
for his son, and at the same time to free himself
from the pressure of supporting the same.”
Helen leaned forward panting, and the lawyer
noticed G. Guest's sly knowledge of this.
“Now,” proceeded he, “my friend G. Guest,
Esq., would like to enter into negotiations with
any one who wants possession of the boy; but
my friend, G. Guest, Esq., is at the same time
timorous of entering on the subject with Miss
Dimmock, as he has made a large hole in Miss
Dimmock's estate, and is, in great measure, in
her power.”
Did he recall the time he put his heel on her
dearest affections and felt that he had her in his
power? Did he remember attributing to her
the same low motives which he had himself in
holding to the child? Did he remember his
insolent patronage of the young woman obliged
to work for her living?
He was constrained to look at her for one
instant. His was that nature which bullies
loudly when it is up, but droops most abjectly
in the strong, serious face set over against
him. She simply commiserated a creature who
could be as mean as he.
“Therefore,” explained Mr. Chancery, “he
has delegated me to treat with Miss Dimmock
with reference to the child. He recognizes the
fact that, as sister of the child's mother, she
would have peculiar interest in it, and he almost
regrets having so precipitately removed it from
her fostering care. In fine, if Miss Dimmock
wishes to adopt the child to-night, I am ready
to make out the papers and attend to the formalities
of such adoption.”
There was dead silence: Helen held her
breath like one straining toward a dear goal,
who dares scarcely put out a hand lest he dash
his opportunity. She knew how treacherous
this man was, and she feared he would hear the
beat of her eager heart, and tantalize her in the
prosperity he was obliged to resign to her, by
withholding what she valued more.
He spoke first.
“The little fellow came down with me. Be
delighted to see you, I'm sure.”
She leaned forward and put the question with
white eagerness:
“Will you give up the child to me?”
G. Guest, Esq., in spite of the lawyer's warning,
could not resist seizing his advantage. He
hesitated, slightly inflated his magnificence, and
HELEN STOOD UP, REACHING BOTH ARMS FOR HIM.
[Description: 494EAF. Illustration page. Image of a woman reaching her arms out to an older man. They are standing in a crowded room.]
broke across it with the suggestion that as he
was at Miss Dimmock's mercy he had better let
his lawyer treat with her.
So he subsided, and accepted such generosity
as she could bring herself for Nina's and
George's sake to show him.
Mr. Chancery drew up the papers, and they
were signed, and duly witnessed by Launt and
by Rikka, who was roused from dreams of flax-headed
youths under the high Lutheran pulpit,
to put her astonishing script on record and join
in the coming jubilee of George's restoration.
There now remained nothing to do but to
bring the child.
Again Mr. Chancery went to the door and
curdled the night air with his whistling.
Perhaps George had been kept waiting at the
nearest police station. However that may be,
he was almost immediately bundled up the
steps into Mr. Chancery's arms by Maggie Maloney,
who came under the escort of a policeman,
and who, after kissing her charge with the
violent affection of the Irish nurse, departed under
the escort of the policeman.
Helen stood up, reaching both arms for him.
She sobbed, too, her mother heart almost bursting
to touch him again.
As Mr. Chancery advanced across the floor
with him, George rubbed his sleepy eyes—
child's long, joyful note, “O—O—O—O!”
She had him in her arms, her Nina's own
boy, never to be separated from her any more.
He clung, and cried, and laughed, fondling her
cheeks, forgetting everything in his child-universe
except his Toola.
Mr. Chancery drew his client slowly toward
the door. G. Guest, Esq., backed step by step,
watching the scene with a wicked face.
Launt drew Helen's head to his shoulder and
laid a kindly hand on her baby. Rikka stood
snuffling and grinning on her apron.
One could imagine an invisible orchestra pulsing
full and low, under this last tableau in the
drama of a home.
Thus was the shadow of G. Guest, Esq.,
turned from the house.
As for that shadow and the grossness which
cast it, they went back to their own world to
swell and strut and play in many rôles, and
particularly to pamper G. Guest, Esq., the remainder
of his appointed time under the sun.
“The mills of God grind slowly, but they grind
exceeding small.”
It would not be convenient to have earth
paved by the bodies of all the wicked slain at
once.
| CHAPTER XIX.
THE LAWYER TURNS STAGE-MANAGER. A woman in armor | |