University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.
A LAWYER'S THEORY.

Mliss was not greatly disturbed by the apparition.
There are moments when the tired soul
sunk into a delicious rest serenely rises above
the storms and troubles of life, or even the approach
of death. Such a moment Mliss now experienced.
The planet might tremble and shake
beneath her, but what did she care? Had she
not found her hero, and did not his eyes beam
upon her face the same tender love as of old?

The sweet silence was at last broken. Mr. Gray
began to question her and she replied. It was
a long story, and her seeming indifference to any
past trouble in view of her present happiness
made it longer than it would have been had she
met Mr. Shaw instead of his young associate.
She had nothing to keep back, knew nothing
that he might not know, but she let him draw
the particulars from her as if half dreading that
when the story was finished Mr. Gray would slip
from her grasp.

But by dint of question and answer Mr. Gray
arrived at the knowledge now possessed by the
reader. A wide field for conjecture still lay open
before him. Who was this woman whom he had
supposed to be Mliss's mother? Was she one of
those unnatural mothers that form a terrible exception
to the rule that teaches motherly love as
an instinct superior in force and con tancy to
the influence of vice or the warpings of education,
or was she an adventuress attracted to
Mliss as a possible heiress through whom she
might reach wealth and position? Who was
Waters, and what was he to the supposed widow
of the deceased Smith? Waters was the probable
murderer of Mliss's father. Waters had enjoyed
the rich mine which Mliss's father was
working in secret. Waters might have conjectured
that he could not always keep his possession
a secret, and that when the fact of his
working Smith's claim became known, he would
be invited to surrender the claim to Smith's orphan
child. What would a desperate, unscrupulous
man be likely to do in such a situation?
He might kill the orphan, but this course would
not make him the orphan's heir. He could not
kill the entire settlement of Smith's Pocket,
though there was a strong probability that the
entire settlement of Smith's Pocket might kill
him.

Lawyers always construct theories when they
cannot discover facts. A good lawyer examines
his theory closely and rejects it if not consistent
with facts as they appear. A bad lawyer clings
to his pet theory even after investigation shows
that it is founded on an imperfect knowledge of
facts.

Mr. Gray was not yet a good lawyer in the full
sense of the term, but his mind was of the character
good lawyers are made of. He now constructed
his theory, mentally reserving the right
to modify it materially or reject it entirely
should future investigation prove it to be erroneous.

His theory was this: Waters had discovered
Smith in possession of a rich claim. Waters
had reasoned to himself that a man of Smith's
character might do anything and not excite
surprise, and among the acts he might naturally
commit was that of murder. Waters therefore
had killed Smith and stealthily taken possession
of the claim. Waters had worked it with great
success. But Waters in time became apprehensive
that he would be discovered and driven from
the claim. Waters then set himself to devise
measures to avoid this misfortune. Waters had
a wife or mistress who, judging from Waters's
character, might be a clever, unscrupulous woman.
Waters conceived the idea of having this
woman present herself in the character of
Smith's widow and Mliss's mother. In this
character she would be heir to one-half o-Smith's
claim in her right as widow, and as
guardian of Mliss would take possession of the
other half. Waters meantime keeps in the background.
The affray in which McSnagley had
lost his life was forced upon Waters and brought
on a crisis sooner than he intended. The woman
however acted promptly and successfully. She
succeeded in convincing judge and court that
she was Smith's widow.

As Smith's widow she was entitled to the
guardianship of Mliss. But Waters lived and
possibly had some hold on the woman. Waters
therefore must be appeased. Known to have
committed one murder, and suspected of anf
other, the State of California was not a safe
residence. Water designed therefore to have
Mrs. Smith get complete possession of the proceeds
of the sale of Smith's claim, and then in
company with that lady leave the State for her
own good. Mliss would always form a clue to
detection, therefore Mliss must be got rid of.
The Industrial School or the Magdalen Asylum
were places from which the complaints of young
girls could not be heard distinctly. It would
not be difficult to make the public believe that
a willful, erratic girl like Mliss needed a more
powerful restraint than a fond mother's love.
The statement of Mliss, if charged with impropriety
of conduct, would not be relied on implicitly.
There was a good prospect therefore of
carrying out such a scheme successfully.

But Mliss had run away, and while seeking
the protection of the law had fallen into his
hands. What should he do with her? What
could he do with her? She was verging upon
womanhood, he quite a young man. In Smith's
Pocket his protection to a child of twelve had
not subjected her to scandal. In San Francisco,
a like protection to a young girl of thirteen
might be misconstrued.

But there was one point upon which Mr. Gray
was firm. Mliss should not be returned to the
woman known as Mrs. Smith. That lady would
doubtless claim her, but that lady should not
have her. Not at least until the law had sifted
her pretensions.

“Did I do right to run away?” asked Mliss.

“Quite right, my child.”

“Then you won't send me back?”

“Never.”

That assurance was enough. She would not
tease him more than she could help. She would
let him see his new Clytie.

The last privilege she regarded as the height
of generosity. Her eyes, grown soft and shy,
stole glances at his face. She was thinking if
she could do that hardest thing for a woman to
do—share a heart she prized with another of her
sex.

Mr. Gray had no nice elderly lady friend to
whom he could present Mliss as a protege of his
own, but he realized that he must place her in
charge of some person of her own sex. For one
night he could count on his own landlady, but
permanent provision must be made for her in
some other house.

Mliss was not troubled with any of these perplexing
considerations. She would go wherever
said and be so good.

The next morning Mr. Gray sought an interview
with Mr. Shaw. There were three hours
each day during which that gentleman was an
excellent lawyer and a half of one of these
three hours Mr. Gray monopolized.

In clear, succinct language here capitulated the
leading points of the story, dwelling chiefly upon
its legal aspect. The sentimental element
he dismissed with the simple statement that
she had been a pupil of his in whom he felt an
interest.

Mr. Shaw listened with more interest than he
usually displayed in matter of business.

“Where is the child now?” he asked.

“I placed her in charge of my landlady last
night, and she will remain there until I find a
better place.”

“Can you depend upon your landlady to conceal
her if she should be sought for?”

“I have no right to expect my landlady to incur
responsibility or my account.”

“Of course not. We must find some other
place for her. It must not be with you, for the
girl's mother knows where to find you, and she
will naturally suspect the child has come to you.
I am surprised that she did not come here instead
of going to the chief of police.”

“To the chief of police?”

“That officer last night received information
that a girl about twelve years of age had left
her home. It is intimated also that a young
man had something to do with the flight. The
girl doubtless is your friend—the young man is
probably yourself.”

Mr. Gray was a cool temperament, but he
looked a little bewildered at this charge.

“At least,” continued the astute lawyer,
“this is the aspect the case will be made to
wear. The woman is clever. She would paralyze
the arm of the child's only friend by making
him appear to be implicated in the child abduction.”

“Do you know the woman?”

“I only know her legal adviser. His name is
Hopp.”

“Ah, Hopp!”

“A deep fellow. He can follow a clue better
than any man I know. He has got a good case.
The law is on his side. The mother is the
child's natural guardian. The child is peculiar;
she will be made to appear to be bad. The
court will be asked to place her under wholesome
restraint. Unless we prove a great deal
more than we can prove yet, the court will do
as asked.”

“Am I to understand that you object to
taking the case?”

“By no means. Hopp may beat us, but he
shall not frighten us. The first thing we have
to do is to place the child under proper protection.
A young man, however well-intentioned,
is not eligible to the position.”

“What do you propose?”

“I will take her to my own house and conceal
her until we can strengthen our position.”

“But your family—it may be unpleasant—”

“My family can be depended upon to conceal
anything Mr. Hopp wants to find—to find anything
Mr. Hopp wants concealed. The first step
is to remove the child from your house to mine.
You must not appear in the matter as you are
probably watched. Neither must she be seen in
the street, as she would be arrested and taken
back to her mother. Don't let us make a mistake
at the start.”

“What course do you suggest?”

“Give me a note to the child, directing her
to trust herself with the bearer as if he were
yourself. Another note to your landlady directing
her to give the child up. A trusty messenger

and a close carriage will accomplish the
rest.”

Mr. Gray prepared the note as requested, and
Mr. Shaw sent a line to his wife desiring her to
take charge of a young girl who would shortly
arrive. An hour later Mr. Shaw received the
following note from his daughter:

Mr. Shaw handed the note to Mr. Gray.

“My daughter seems to comprehend the situation,”
he said. “By the way, why are you not
friends?”

“Suppose you ask Miss Shaw.”

“I have; and Miss Shaw tells me to ask you.”

“We are not acquainted.”

“My dear fellow, we must not hold women to
a strict account. Give them latitude. Forget
all they do that you do not like, and remember
all they do that you do like. In this way they
will always appear charming. Perhaps Miss
Shaw avoided you before she knew your worth.
Perhaps she was rude; she is sometimes. But
she has a good heart, and is less spoiled by flattery
than most girls as pretty as she. Come and
dine with us to-day.”

“Not to-day, thank you. If I am suspected
of having aided Miss Smith to escape, her mother
will look for her wherever I may go.”

“True. I had forgotten about Miss Smith.
Is she a pretty child?”

“Sometimes.”

“That means that her beauty depends upon
the mood she is in. She has a little temper,
perhaps.”

“A somewhat unruly temper. She has never
been properly traited. But she is brave, honest,
impulsive, and truthful.”

“These are the cardinal traits of character.
Such girls, if violent and headstrong in youth,
make noble women.”

Mr. Shaw now fortified himself for his duty in
court by a stiff glass of brandy, and sallied out
in high spirits.

Miss Shaw had given the scene she had accidentally
witnessed in Mr. Gray's office more
consideration that it was apparently entitled to
in view of the fact that she was but slightly acquainted
with one party and wholly unacquainted
with the other. Her father had always
spoken of Mr. Gray as being wholly occupied
with business, and averse to forming other
than business acquaintance with ladies who
called at the office. But Miss Shaw's limited
knowledge of legal affairs did not comprehend
a business acquaintance which would justify the
attitude in which she had found the young
lawyer and his youthful client. She herself, the
daughter of his principal, a young lady much
admired and conscious that admiration was her
due, had found him cold, austere, and singularly
unimpressible. Her sweetest smiles had not
warmed him into the slightest manifestation of
that admiration she was accustomed to receive.
Yet this little girl had found the way to his
arms and nestled there, as if it was the softest
place to rest on earth.

Several times Miss Shaw admonished herself
that it was nothing to her whom Mr. Gray held
in his arms. He was a man, and men were not
harshly censured for such manifestations of
tenderness to a child. But still the scene would
recur and she experienced a restless curiosity to
know what it meant.

The next morning Miss Shaw was with her
mother when Mr. Shaw's note was placed in that
lady's hands.

“Dear me,” exclaimed Mrs. Shaw, languidly,
“how very inconsiderate your father is. Read
that, dear.”

Miss Shaw read it. Her bright eyes sparkled.
Her mind, by some inexplicable process known
only to her sex, connected the little girl she
had seen in Mr. Gray's office with the little
girl they were requested to receive. It flashed
through the young lady's mind also that by
being very attentive and kind to Mr. Gray's protege
she would cause herself to appear in a more
favorable light to Mr. Gray himself.

Mrs. Shaw was a delicate, nervous little lady,
who had some years before resolved to be an invalid,
partly because she was indisposed to the
exertion imposed by good health, and partly
because the character was interesting in itself.
Her invalidism might have taken a more decided
form but for the fact that she was a member
of a fashionable church and conscientiously
scrupulous in the performance of the duties pertaining
to the position. Her conscience was
more tender on this point since she was aware
that she monopolized all the religious sentiment
in the family. Mr. Shaw was theoretically
in favor of religion—for other people. Miss
Shaw was too full of this world to give much
thought to the other—and Bob, the black sheep
of the family, could neither be coaxed nor
driven to church.

Upon Miss Shaw, therefore, devolved such
household duties as could not be performed by
servants. Upon Miss Shaw in this instance devolved
the duty of receiving the young girl
Mr. Shaw had so inconsiderately imposed upon
them.

The young lady had not much time for reflection.
Ten minutes after Mr. Shaw's note was
received, a close carriage stopped at the door, a
small figure vailed and wrapped in a large shawl
alighted and quickly ascended the steps. Miss

Shaw herself opened the door, the man who had
accompanied the child saw her inside, then returned
to the carriage and was driven off.

The two girls were alone. Miss Shaw took her
visitor by the hand and led her to the family
sitting-room. Mliss threw off her vail and
shawl and glanced around, her eyes resting at
last on her companion's face.

“Ah!” Miss exclaimed, a flush stealing over
her dark features, “is it you?”

“Do you recognize me!” asked the other,
smiling.

“It was you who came to Mr. Gray's office
last night,” replied Mliss, and the flush became
deeper.

“Yes; Mr. Gray's office is my father's office.
I went to see my father.”

“O,” said Mliss, relieved.

“I suspect Mr. Gray is an old friend of yours.”
said Miss Shaw, kindly, drawing the child to a
seat on the lounge.

“O, so old,” replied Mliss, perhaps confounding
time with a sense of service rendered.

“But you are not so very old,” rejoined Miss
Shaw, laughingly.

“No; but it seems so long. What made Mr.
Gray send me here?”

“I suppose he thought you'd be taken good
care of here.”

“Does he come here very often?”

“No; I have never met him but once. He
does not come here at all.”

Mliss was silent for a moment. She was evidently
undecided whether to regard Miss Shaw
as another Clytie who would try to steal her
friend away from her or as a young lady with
whom she might form friendly relations.

Miss Shaw employed the time in writing a
note to her father, which the reader has already
seen. She then turned to Mliss.

“My father wrote to me to expect you,” she
said, “but he did not tell me your name.”

“My name is Melissa Smith. Mr. Gray calls
me Lissy. What is your name?”

“Reginia Shaw.”

“Reginia Shaw! How odd!”

“Odd! Why?”

“Is Robert Shaw your brother?'

“Yes,” answered Reginia, the color rising on
her cheek. “Have you ever met him?”

“I don't think the Robert Shaw I mean is
your brother. He is not a bit like you.”

“Robert Shaw is not like me. I hope he is
not bad, but he is wild and spends his time with
low people. Sometimes I do not see him for a
whole week.”

“It is the same,” said Mliss, with her old vehemence
of expression. “I don't like him. If
he comes here I won't stay.”

“My dear child, he shan't see you. No one
shall see you. You must stay because Mr. Gray
wants you to stay.”

Mliss softened at this appeal, and consented
to remain, on condition, however, that Mr. Robert
Shaw should not be informed of her presence
in his father's house.

“I won't question you more now,” said Miss
Shaw; “there is some mystery about you, but
I know you are a nice little girl. Some time, if
Mr. Gray doesn't object, you shall tell me all
about yourself.”