“Well, come,” thought Westby, as he paid the clerk at the telegraph office, “there is an end to Newton, for this night at least. If I am only left at peace I shall be able to see the end of that brief by sticking to it hard all night.”
But, alas! when Westby entered his chambers, there, before his incredulous eyes, stood Newton.
“If you are merely a spirit, I don’t mind,” exclaimed Westby, annoyed; “but in the flesh you have no business here.”
“Your last letter—” muttered Newton, apologetically.
“Positively stated that you were not to return till sent for,” rejoined Westby. “Nevertheless,” and his voice somewhat softened, “you are partly absolved by circumstances, inasmuch as a message advising your return is now seeking for you at Boulogne.”
“How can I ever repay all your kindness?” exclaimed Newton, clasping Westby’s hands.
“Don’t interrupt the judge,” cried Westby, with affected solemnity. “Recollect you only stand entirely absolved on one condition, that you condense everything you have to say into five minutes. Here, look at that,” and Westby pointed to a bundle of papers. “I’ve got to stuff every bit of it into my head before I go to bed.”
“I know you have been working so hard for me; you’re the best, the dearest fellow that ever lived.”
“Let me warn you, Newton, not to waste your five minutes with adjectives. Come, now, how did you get on in France? Anything to match your pet Southdowns there?”
“Hang the sheep, Westby! I know you always hate to be thanked, but I will say what I feel.”
So Westby was forced to listen to the outpourings of Newton’s gratitude.
“It’s a kindness to send you away, old boy,” said Westby, when the five minutes had expired. “I know where you are off to.”
“I shan’t be expected, shall I?”
“Well, to say truth, you won’t—for a letter which I posted this afternoon to the young lady mentions to-morrow as the earliest period for your appearance—it will be all the greater surprise.”
Newton having departed, Westby buried himself in his large chair with the documents before him and his favourite pipe in his mouth. With all his efforts he felt a tendency to wander away from the subject on hand; Newton would come struggling into his mind, and Lilian, and the meeting of the lovers; but gradually as he warmed to his work, as he mastered the facts of the case, and drew his inferences, weaving them into possible arguments, his mind became perfectly absorbed. Though the generality of readers may wonder at it, I affirm that Westby experienced intense satisfaction in this severe mental application; the intricacies of the case began to clear away; bit by bit his own arguments grew side by side with the anticipated arguments of his adversary. Ah me, the joy of antagonism, and its power to evoke the energies! In all probability, two or three other men were at the very same time in adjacent chambers at work on the same subject; men of talent equally absorbed—absorbed just as poets are absorbed in the effort of creation—tasting, too, as poets taste, the joy of creative power in new points to be raised in argument.
Thus time sped on unheeded by Westby.
There was a tap at his door; he mechanically cried “Come in!” but being so preoccupied, he was scarcely conscious that anybody had entered until he felt a hand on his shoulder; he roused himself, and looking round saw Newton pale and agitated.
“You must forgive me for troubling you at this time of night, but I saw a light in your room—that old housekeeper of yours who never seems to go to bed let me in. I could not rest, Westby, till I had told you about it. The engagement’s off.”
“Broken off?—impossible!”
“Broken utterly.”
“By whom?” asked Westby.
“Mutually; but I must tell you that we are both pledged to silence regarding the reasons.”
Westby was lost in astonishment.
“I did not come to make a confidant of you in this unfortunate affair,” continued Newton. “I came, old boy, to grasp you by the hand, and tell you again—for I did not say it half enough when I saw you first—how truly sensible I am of all your efforts on my behalf. You have stuck to me, Westby, and I feel that more than I can say after what has taken place. You will forgive me for bothering you.”
Westby shook Newton’s hand, and he felt how it trembled.
“You have had a personal interview with Miss Temple?”
“Yes. I will tell you as much as I may of the circumstances. When I left here I drove straight to their house. I found to my surprise that they had a party. I was a good deal put out by this, wishing to see Lilian quietly, and I was of course anxious to make as little talk as possible about my return to England. I was dying to see her, but somehow I had not pluck to enter the house. I stood some time behind the crowd who were looking at the people getting out of the carriages. You know I’m very stupid about these things—my travelling dress, too, and how to explain to the men at the door who I was, for, as plague would have it, the servants seemed to have been all changed. Well, I screwed up my courage at last, and knocked at the door. There, I forgive those infernal fellows now, how the deuce should they have understood my story? but at the time I would have given anything for leave to send one of them to ground. At last I got hold of Lilian’s maid, and then I learnt the rights of the affair. They had got private theatricals. Miss Temple was to play the chief part, the girl told me; she had just finished dressing her mistress and the play had already begun; should she go and say I had arrived? I told her not to utter a word of my being in the house till the play was over, and in the mean time to put me in a room where I could remain undisturbed by the guests. After some difficulty, I found refuge in Mr. Temple’s dressing-room and special sanctum. One of the bills of the performance lay on the table.