Page:Once a Week, Series 1, Volume II Dec 1859 to June 1860.pdf/334

 7, 1860.] “After all, Gentlemen, married life may be fairly enough represented by these of which we have heard so much, half-silk and half-cotton—one half for comfort one half for show. Mrs. Barber looked to find all silk, and she was mistaken. Had she been contented with that moderate amount of happiness beyond which, as it seems, human beings can scarcely hope to go, we should have heard nothing of her complaints here to-day—nor would her husband have been driven to those expedients for making life tolerable which we all deplore. Now let us keep these Cotton Tops in view a little longer. Mrs. Barber swears that she did not perform the acts charged at Folkestone; Mr. Barber swears she did. There’s oath against oath. Now read Mrs. Barber’s character by the light of that special agreement with reference to silk stockings, which she made before her marriage—and, Gentlemen, I ask you as men of the world, is it not possible—is it not probable—is it not well-nigh certain—nay, is it not certain that the lady is mistaken in her version of the transactions at Folkestone? But if she was mistaken in one instance why not in others? Of course I can’t carry the Cotton Tops into the dressing-room at Cheltenham—nor the breakfast-room at Brussels—but I repeat it, if it can be proved to your satisfaction that Mrs. Barber was mistaken once—observe I use a very mild, a very guarded, a very cautious expression—why not twice, and thrice? I will put Mr. Barber before you, and he will tell you that he indignantly repudiates the idea of ever having lifted his hand against his wife during the period of their marriage. He will tell you that at Cheltenham Mrs. Barber by her own act knocked her wrist slightly against a tooth-brush with which he was brushing his teeth—that he never cut off her hair at Brussels as she alleges—that at Herne Bay the ridiculous scene with the magic lanthorn had no existence save in her own imagination—but that in all respects, and at all times till driven away from his home by the lady’s own levity and indifference he has been to her an anxious—a tender—and a loving husband. I wish, Gentlemen of the Jury, I could stop here!”

What could Mr. Shuttlecock be driving at? I am sure he has gone far enough. It would require us to drive out of our minds all that we have heard for many days past, before we could admit this catch-penny story about Mr. Barber’s attention and devotion to his wife. Something, however, was coming, for it was obvious that Mr. Shuttlecock was making up his face for a great and concluding effort.

“I wish, gentlemen, I could stop here. But although my client, Mr. Barber, has most strenuously, but most properly forbidden me to produce before you matter for grave recrimination, I should not be performing my duty to him—no, nor to you, Gentlemen—if I did not again recur to that which has been the real secret of the domestic unhappiness upon which you are called to pronounce your decision this day. What do you say to Madame Léocadie Lareine and her evidence? If I had been in Court, I should like to have asked that lady, if we dull moral Englishmen are to have French wives, why should we not act like French husbands? I should like to know what this French lady would have said to that? If Mrs. Barber is to waste the money which should have been expended upon the common subsistence of the family in the gratification of her inordinate love of dress, why should not Mr. Barber take these slight liberties with the marriage vow which French husbands are accustomed to take amidst very general applause? No, Gentlemen of the Jury, we want no French witnesses—no French wives—no French manners here. But, in conclusion, I will tell you once more, and repeat it to you again, as Mr. Barber will tell you, that it was his wife’s levity of conduct—observe, I go no further—and passion for admiration which first drove him from his home. Mrs. Barber had a kind word and a warm smile for everybody but him; and I cannot conceal from you, and it would be wrong to conceal from you, the fact that my client, like the famous Moor of Venice, is a man of jealous temperament, somewhat too exacting it may be of a return for his devotion,—for his unbounded affection. What drove him from his home, and what has driven him here to dayto-day [sic], was that

Ay! that was too much for him—more than his manly heart could bear. By degrees, I admit it, his affections became estranged from his lady; but if this was so, who was to blame? Even at the worst, when the volcano of passion in his heart had burnt itself out, and had become a cold and icy glacier, Mr. Barber never by word or deed treated his wife with unkindness; and never in the course of his life raised his hand against her erring but sacred head. He shall tell you so himself. Call Mr. Barber.”

With these words Mr. Shuttlecock sat down, leaving the Court and Jury in a perfect state of intellectual muddle and confusion.

I had not noticed the fact during the excitement caused by Mr. Shuttlecock’s speech, but when he had concluded, and I looked around me, I was perfectly astounded at the number of barristers who had made their way into Court, and were now to be seen (it is usual, in such cases, to refer to “Vallombrosa,” “autumn leaves,” &c., but I forbear,) standing huddled together in the space on the proper left of the seats devoted to the accommodation of the Bar. It was just like a pit-crush in the grand old days of “Drury” or “the Garden.” The learned gentlemen were so tightly packed that I scarcely think that if a blue-bottle had settled upon any of their noses, the owner of the feature in question would have been able to seek for relief in any other way than by twitching it about; or, if the insect had persevered in its attentions, despite of the uncertain foot-hold, by rubbing it against the tight little grey tails which depended from the wig of the learned gentleman immediately before him. Mr. Battledove, too, appeared in his place: how he