“That wouldn’t suit you at all, Mr. Chaffanbrass, for you’d be sick of it in a week.”
“At any rate I’m not fit for it,” said the great man meekly. “I’ll tell you what, Aram, I can look back on life and think that I’ve done a deal of good in my way. I’ve prevented unnecessary bloodshed. I’ve saved the country thousands of pounds in the maintenance of men who’ve shown themselves well able to maintain themselves. And I’ve made the Crown lawyers very careful as to what sort of evidence they would send up to the Old Bailey. But my chances of life have been such that they haven’t made me fit to be a judge. I know that.”
“I wish I might see you on the bench tomorrow;—only that we shouldn’t know what to do without you,” said the civil attorney. It was no more than the fair everyday flattery of the world, for the practice of Mr. Solomon Aram in his profession was quite as surely attained as was that of Mr. Chaffanbrass. And it could hardly be called flattery, for Mr. Solomon Aram much valued the services of Mr. Chaffanbrass, and greatly appreciated the peculiar turn of that gentleman’s mind.
The above conversation took place in Mr. Solomon Aram’s private room in Bucklersbury. In that much-noted city thoroughfare Mr. Aram rented the first floor of a house over an eating establishment. He had no great paraphernalia of books and boxes and clerks’ desks, as are apparently necessary to attorneys in general. Three clerks he did employ, who sat in one room, and he himself sat in that behind it. So at least they sat when they were to be found at the parent establishment; but, as regarded the attorney himself and his senior assistant, the work of their lives was carried on chiefly in the courts of law. The room in which Mr. Aram was now sitting was furnished with much more attention to comfort than is usual in lawyers’ chambers. Mr. Chaffanbrass was at present lying, with his feet up, on a sofa against the wall, in a position of comfort never attained by him elsewhere till the after-dinner hours had come to him; and Mr. Aram himself filled an easy lounging-chair. Some few law papers there were scattered on the library table, but none of those piles of dusty documents which give to a stranger, on entering an ordinary attorney’s room, so terrible an idea of the difficulty and dreariness of the profession. There were no tin boxes with old names labelled on them; there were no piles of letters, and no pigeonholes loaded with old memoranda. On the whole Mr. Aram’s private room was smart and attractive; though, like himself, it had an air rather of pretence than of steady and assured well-being.
It is not quite the thing for a barrister to wait upon an attorney, and therefore it must not be supposed that Mr. Chaffanbrass had come to Mr. Aram with any view to immediate business; but nevertheless, as the two men understood each other, they could say what they had to say as to this case of Lady Mason’s, although their present positions were somewhat irregular. They were both to meet Mr. Furnival and Felix Graham on that afternoon in Mr. Furnival’s chambers with reference to the division of those labours which were to be commenced at Alston on the day but one following, and they both thought that it might be as well that they should say a word to each other on the subject before they went there.
“I suppose you know nothing about the panel down there, eh?” said Chaffanbrass.
“Well, I have made some inquiries; but I don’t think there’s anything especial to know;—nothing that matters. If I were you, Mr. Chaffanbrass, I wouldn’t have any Hamworth people on the jury, for they say that a prophet is never a prophet in his own country.”
“But do you know the Hamworth people?”
“Oh, yes; I can tell you as much as that. But I don’t think it will matter much who is or is not on the jury.”
“And why not?”
“If those two witnesses break down—that is, Kenneby and Bolster, no jury can convict her. And if they don’t—”
“Then no jury can acquit her. But let me tell you, Aram, that it’s not every man put into a jury-box who can tell whether a witness has broken down or not.”
“But from what I hear, Mr. Chaffanbrass, I don’t think either of these can stand a chance;—that is, if they both come into your hands.”
“But they won’t both come into my hands,” said the anxious hero of the Old Bailey.
“Ah! that’s where it is. That’s where we shall fail. Mr. Furnival is a great man, no doubt.”
“A very great man—in his way,” said Mr. Chaffanbrass.
“But if he lets one of those two slip through his fingers the thing’s over.”
“You know my opinion,” said Chaffanbrass. “I think it is all over. If you’re right in what you say—that they’re both ready to swear in their direct evidence that they only signed one deed on that day, no vacillation afterwards would have any effect on the judge. It’s just possible, you know, that their memory might deceive them.”
“Possible! I should think so. I’ll tell you what, Mr. Chaffanbrass, if the matter was altogether in your hands I should have no fear—literally no fear.”
“Ah, you’re partial, Aram.”
“It couldn’t be so managed, could it, Mr. Chaffanbrass? It would be a great thing; a very great thing.” But Mr. Chaffanbrass said that he thought it could not be managed. The success or safety of a client is a very great thing;—in a professional point of view
