Perhaps no greater proof of his wonderful genius could be given than is presented by that oft-repeated and simple anecdote. Only a transcendant genius could have forced itself out under such miserable circumstances. Aymer certainly had talent, perhaps even genius, but he had not yet found his opportunity—he was not quite certain wherein his ability really lay. All his efforts were tentative. They failed one and all—failed just at the moment when what he most wanted was a little encouragement. He did not spare himself; he worked the whole day, saving only an hour put aside to walk upon the Downs for health’s sake.
He had still fifteen pounds remaining of the munificent, and anonymous present he had received. This he husbanded with the utmost care; it was his capital, his all. With it he formed schemes of reaching London, and finding employment. He only waited till a work upon which he was now engaged was finished before he started. Now Violet was gone, there was no inducement to remain at World’s End; far better to go out and face hard facts, and conquer them.
But as the days went by, and the work was half finished, a deadly despair seemed to seize him. Of what use was it? Every slow post that reached that almost forgotten spot returned to him work rejected and despised. His sketches, he was told, “wanted spirit;” his literary labours “wanted finish, and bore marks of haste.”
If these were useless, of what good was it to complete this book he was writing? It would only end in another disappointment. He ceased to open his letters; he flung them on one side. For a day or two he did nothing—he wandered about on the open Downs, seeking consolation from Nature, and finding none. At last, accusing himself of a lack of energy and fortitude, he set to work again. So it was not till two days after date that he read the following letter, which had been cast upon one side with the rest:—
“2, Market Cross, Barnham.
“Dear Sir—I am requested by Mr. Broughton to ask you to call upon him at your earliest convenience. He has some employment to offer you.
He went. Broughton received him kindly, and explained that he wanted a clerk, not so much for technical work as for correspondence, and to give general assistance. Aymer being a novice and completely ignorant of such duties, could not of course expect much salary. However, he would have thirty-five shillings per week. This offer was made partly through Lady Lechester’s influence, partly out of the interest he himself took in Aymer. But a true lawyer, he could not help doing even good as cheaply as possible. Aymer thanked him, and accepted the post.
X
Aymer would in times gone by have regarded the employment he had now obtained as a great step in advance, and have rejoiced accordingly. But he had been too near the prize for it to give him even so much as hope for the future. He wished to be grateful for what he had got; he tried to look upon it as a wonderful thing, but it was impossible. The contrast between the actual, and what had been within his very grasp was too intense.
It was an easy place. Beyond a little correspondence to write for Mr. Broughton, and sometimes a little copying, he had practically nothing to do. His hours were short for the business—only from ten till four; he had plenty of time at his own disposal.
The fact was that his salary came, not directly, but indirectly from Lady Lechester, and he was favoured accordingly. If he had known this he would have been still more dissatisfied.
The office in which he was placed was a kind of library or retiring apartment, opening by double doors into Mr. Broughton’s private room; and he was often called upon to bear witness to certain transactions of a strictly private nature, and in which the solicitor told him he relied upon his honour as a gentleman, to preserve secrecy.
Broughton really meant him well, and did his best now and then to start him on in the acquisition of a knowledge of the law. Books were put into his hands, and he was told what parts of them to study, and had to prepare extracts from them occasionally. Aymer did his best, conscientiously, but he hated it—he hated it most thoroughly. It was not altogether that the reading in these books was dry and uninteresting to the last degree. Flat, tame, spiritless, meaningless—a mere collection of decisions, interpretations, precedents—such they appeared at first. Aymer had talent and insight sufficient to speedily observe that this forbidding aspect was not the true one.
All these precedents, rules, decisions—these ten thousand subtle distinctions—were much like the laws or rules of a game at chess. They decided in what way a pawn should be moved or a bishop replaced. The science of law seemed to him like a momentous game at chess, only the pieces were living human creatures.
These subtle distinctions and technical divisions, formalities though they appeared, had a meaning, and a deep one. Following his employer, Mr. Broughton, into the petty law courts at Barnham, he saw how the right and the wrong, the sorrow or the joy of human beings depended almost upon the quibble of a word, the incident of a slip of the pen. It was a game—a game requiring long study, an iron memory, quick observation, and quicker decision; and he hated it—hated it because the right appeared to be of no consequence. Truth, and what he had always thought was meant by justice, were left entirely out of sight.
It was not the man who had the right upon his side who won. If that was the case, what use would there be for lawyers? Too often it was the man who had the law upon his side, and the law only. He actually heard
