must not smoke there, on account of the servant maids, as they objected to the smell of tobacco. Why, sir, if you’d seen our drawing-room in Upper Berkeley Street, with a lot of people there seated round, as if they’d been going to see conjuring, and heard Mrs. Barber howling away in the midst of us, you’d have been sorry for me. And she would make me bring the fellows from the Clubs; and when we were sick of the noise, and sneaked down-stairs into the hat room to have a little beer—not much more peace for me that night!”
Dr. L. “Not much more peace for you that night: Go on, sir. Go on.”
Mr. B. Why, sir, I can’t remember it all of a heap. There was another day—it was the last Derby Day but two—the men were all waiting for me with the drag to be off; and just as I was tying on my veil Mrs. Barber called me in, and said she would not let me go because confirmation was coming on, and it was my duty, as head of the family, to stop at home and cross-examine little Nancy Tigg—the under nursery-maid—for confirmation. Of course I went all the same, but I got nothing but black looks, sir, for weeks afterwards; though it’s my opinion if we’d asked Mrs. Barber to take a seat in the drag herself—”
Dr. L. “Never mind your opinion, sir, that’s not evidence.”
It would be superfluous to go beyond this sample of Mr. Barber’s examination in chief; and certainly, if his word was to be believed, the rose leaves in his bower were not always uncrumpled—but what of that? We shall soon see to whose statements the Jury will give the readiest credence. I certainly should not have liked to have been in Mr. B.’s position when Mr. Battledove got up, and took him in hand. That gentleman occupied a good quarter of an hour—I am sure I should be nearer the truth if I said half-an-hour—in wrangling with Mr. Barber and the Court upon whether or no he could be compelled to answer certain questions which would, if answered, have convicted him of perjury. All sorts of documents, and registers were handed up—and Mr. B. was growled at, and stormed at by one side; and soothed and encouraged by the other—but the upshot was, that the Court informed him, that he need not answer Mr. Battledove’s question, unless he chose. Mr. Battledove might put it, but he was not obliged to answer to it. Mr. Battledove made an emphatic pause—glared at the Jury—and then in a tone of super-human solemnity repeated his question. Mr. Barber, acting upon the suggestion of the Court, declined to answer it.
“Very good, sir,” said Mr. Battledove, with a contemptuous smile, “that’s quite satisfactory,—that will do.”
Of course it was;—one need not be a great lawyer to know, that if a man is so unscrupulous as to obtain a marriage licence by perjury, he would not be very particular upon another occasion when a temptation, equally strong, is set before him. I trust I am not saying anything deep and out of the way, but that was the result of the discussion in my mind. Mr. Battledove then having placed Mr. Barber in the comfortable position of a perjured man, proceeded to turn him inside out, and hold him in his true colours before the Jury and the Court. Whose money was it which had been expended upon that journey to Epsom? Was it only about little Nancy Tigg and the confirmation that Mrs. Barber had spoken? Was not three weeks rent due for lodgings at the time? Had not Mrs. Barber been therefore insulted by the landlady? and was there not a strong likelihood that the baby would soon be left without food altogether? Had Mr. Barber been asked once—twice—a hundred—ten thousand times—if not, how many times to carry the baby up and down the bedroom? Did he wish to throw the infant out of the window; to pitch it under the grate; to dash its brains out against the bed-post? Which of these alternatives would have been most grateful to his paternal heart? No! there was no use his losing his temper here. The Jury had had one specimen of what he was capable. Had not Mr. Barber literally picked his wife’s pocket—literally, eh? Let him answer that, and keep his temper. Surely there was nothing to ruffle him in so simple a question as that! There were family grievances on both sides; but would Mr. Barber swear that the scheme, recommended by Viscount Poteen to his adoption, was not one for putting the water in the St. George’s Channel into a two-ounce physic-bottle, and taking a spoonful every four hours till the patient told the truth, especially with regard to marriage-licences? Ah! Mr. Barber would swear that—well, that assertion might be true. Had the Noble Lord, however, put Mr. B’s. hair into curl-papers, and nearly torn it out by the roots? Then there were family grievances on both sides? Just so. Did Mr. Barber and his club-companions even get intoxicated—beastly drunk, if he would have it—in the hat-room, while his poor wife was giving one of her graceful little musical ré-unions up-stairs? No! Would he swear Mrs. Barber had never taxed him with it? Ah! Mr. Battledove would have the truth out of him at last.
So, the learned gentleman handled the witness, and it was beautiful to see the state of rage and exasperation to which he was reduced at last. He was brought, in point of fact, to a condition of hopeless mental imbecility, and could only gasp out—Yes, and No, at random. Mr. Shuttlecock came in to his assistance every now and then with a little squabble as to whether or no a particular question could be put, just to give him time to recover his breath, and knowing, of course, that his objection was perfect moonshine.
Poor Mrs. Barber had listened with great interest to the cross-examination of her husband; in point of fact, she stood up during this portion of the proceedings. I was at first rather inclined to blame her in my own mind for putting herself so prominently forward at such a time; but when I remembered what Mr. Lamb’s clerk had told me as to his Governor’s (that was the expression he used) tactical arrangements, I saw at once that she was acting under compulsion. She was not to blame, if she could not altogether repress a smile when her brutal husband was dancing about in the pen like a gouty bear, under the influence of Mr. Battledove’s more stinging questions.