“And a very clever sharp gentleman he is,” said Mrs. Trump.
“With a tolerably good business, I suppose?” asked Crabwitz.
“Pretty fair for that, sir. But he do be turning his hand to everything. He’s a mortal long family of his own, and he has need of it all, if it’s ever so much. But he’ll never be poor for the want of looking after it.”
But Mr. Dockwrath did not come near his lodger on the first evening, and Mr. Crabwitz made acquaintance with Mrs. Dockwrath before he saw her husband. The care of the fourteen children was not supposed to be so onerous but that she could find a moment now and then to see whether Mrs. Trump kept the furniture properly dusted, and did not infringe any of the Dockwrathian rules. These were very strict; and whenever they were broken it was on the head of Mrs. Dockwrath that the anger of the ruler mainly fell.
“I hope you find everything comfortable, sir,” said poor Miriam, having knocked at the sitting-room door when Crabwitz had just finished his dinner.
“Yes, thank you; very nice. Is that Mrs. Dockwrath?”
“Yes, sir. I’m Mrs. Dockwrath. As it’s we who own the room I looked in to see if anything’s wanting.”
“You are very kind. No; nothing is wanting. But I should be delighted to make your acquaintance if you would stay for a moment. Might I ask you to take a chair?” and Mr. Crabwitz handed her one.
“Thank you; no, sir I won’t intrude.”
“Not at all, Mrs. Dockwrath. But the fact is, I’m a lawyer myself, and I should be so glad to become known to your husband. I have heard a great deal of his name lately as to a rather famous case in which he is employed.”
“Not the Orley Farm case?” said Mrs. Dockwrath immediately.
“Yes, yes; exactly.”
“And is he going on with that, sir?” asked Mrs. Dockwrath with great interest.
“Is he not? I know nothing about it myself, but I always supposed that such was the case. If I had such a wife as you, Mrs. Dockwrath, I should not leave her in doubt as to what I was doing in my own profession.”
“I know nothing about it, Mr. Cooke;”—for it was as Mr. Cooke that he now sojourned at Hamworth. Not that it should be supposed he had received instructions from Mr. Furnival to come down to that place under a false name. From Mr. Furnival he had received no further instructions on that matter than those conveyed at the end of a previous chapter. “I know nothing about it, Mr. Cooke; and don’t want to know generally. But I am anxious about this Orley Farm case. I do hope that he’s going to drop it.” And then Mr. Crabwitz elicited her view of the case with great ease.
On that evening, about nine, Mr. Dockwrath did go over to Paradise Row, and did allow himself to be persuaded to mix a glass of brandy and water and light a cigar. “My missus tells me, sir, that you belong to the profession as well as myself.”
“Oh yes; I’m a lawyer, Mr. Dockwrath.”
“Practising in town as an attorney, sir?”
“Not as an attorney on my own hook exactly. I chiefly employ my time in getting up cases for barristers. There’s a good deal done in that way.”
“Oh, indeed,” said Mr. Dockwrath, beginning to feel himself the bigger man of the two; and from that moment he patronised his companion instead of allowing himself to be patronised.
This went against the grain with Mr. Crabwitz, but, having an object to gain, he bore it. “We hear a great deal up in London just at present about this Orley Farm case, and I always hear your name as connected with it. I had no idea when I was taking these lodgings that I was coming into a house belonging to that Mr. Dockwrath.”
“The same party, sir,” said Mr. Dockwrath, blowing the smoke out of his mouth as he looked up to the ceiling.
And then by degrees Mr. Crabwitz drew him into conversation. Dockwrath was by nature quite as clever a man as Crabwitz, and in such a matter as this was not one to be outwitted easily; but in truth he had no objection to talk about the Orley Farm case. “I have taken it up on public motives, Mr. Cooke,” he said, “and I mean to go through with it.”
“Oh, of course; in such a case as that you will no doubt go through with it?”
“That’s my intention, I assure you. And I tell you what; young Mason—that’s the son of the widow of the old man who made the will—”
“Or rather who did not make it, as you say.”
“Yes, yes; he made the will; but he did not make the codicil—and that young Mason has no more right to the property than you have.”
“Hasn’t he now?”
“No; and I can prove it too.”
“Well; the general opinion in the profession is that Lady Mason will stand her ground and hold her own. I don’t know what the points are myself, but I have heard it discussed, and that is certainly what people think.”
“Then people will find that they are very much mistaken.”
“I was talking to one of Round’s young men about it, and I fancy they are not very sanguine.”
“I do not care a fig for Round or his young men. It would be quite as well for Joseph Mason if Round and Crook gave up the matter altogether. It lies in a nutshell, and the truth must come out whatever Round and Crook may choose to say. And I’ll tell you more—old Furnival, big a man as he thinks himself, cannot save her.”
“Has he anything to do with it?” asked Mr. Cooke.
“Yes; the sly old fox. My belief is that only for him she’d give up the battle, and be down on her marrowbones asking for mercy.”
“She’d have little chance of mercy, from what I hear of Joseph Mason.”
“She’d have to give up the property of course.
