Henry Northcote

In the judge’s room Northcote found its occupant seated in an armchair at the side of the fire. The light was subdued, and the face of the old man was in shadow even while he rose to receive his visitor.

“I thank you for coming to see me, Mr. Northcote,” he said, in a low voice. “I will not detain you long, but I hope you will sit down.”

Northcote accepted the seat that was indicated opposite to the judge’s armchair. His curiosity was roused in a strange fashion by the manner and tone of this old man. They were extremely kind and gentle, almost those which an aged and benevolent parent might employ when about to take leave of a favorite son.

“If you will allow an old advocate,” said the judge, leaning back in his chair and placing the tips of his fingers together, “to affirm it again, I have been impressed by your conduct of this case. My memory carries me back a long way; I have been more than fifty years at the bar and on the bench. During that period I have been brought into contact with the greatest advocates of their day, and I have been called upon to bear a part in many of the leading causes. But never, Mr. Northcote,—I emphasize the word,—has it been my privilege to witness a performance so remarkable on the part of one who is young and untried as the one given by you to-day.

“In the first place, and bearing in mind the limited character of your opportunities, I cannot pretend to know how it has been achieved. Your cross-examination of the last witness called for the Crown was, in my view, masterly. I have always held, and many will support me, I am sure, that the art of cross-examination is a searching test of an advocate. To the ordinary person even moderate skill in that supremely difficult branch only comes with years and experience. But you begin, Mr. Northcote, where many of true distinction are only able to leave off.

“I have always been proud, jealous—I might say overjealous perhaps—of my profession, to which I have given the flower of my maturity; and I have always felt that whatever degree of talent it may please God to bestow upon a man, this great profession of ours offers a field which brings it to the test. You must let me say, Mr. Northcote, that when I heard you deal with that poor woman this morning, and I heard you frame those questions which you put to her with a really beautiful sincerity which told heavily with the jury, I felt proud that so young a man could stand up so fearlessly and so collectedly in his first great criminal cause and put to so fine a use the talents that God had given to him. Had you been my own son I could not have felt prouder of you, and prouder of the traditions that you were upholding. Many of the great lights of the past came before my eyes—Pearson, now the Lord Chief Justice; Hutton, the Master of the Rolls; poor, dear Fred Markham, in many respects the most brilliant of them all, who was cut off, poor fellow, almost before he had reached his prime; the late George Stratton; Lord Ballinogue; Walker; Skeffington; and I know not how many more—but I did not hesitate to believe, although we old men are tenacious of our prejudices, that the bounty of nature had placed you already on their level, and that great and good and glorious as were all these names I have mentioned, you were starting at the point where they were content to end.”

Northcote leaned forward and lowered his head with a fierce, almost uncontrollable sensation of bewilderment, in which, however, pain was predominant. Every word that was uttered by that low, trembling, old voice appeared to spring from the heart. It was something more than an old man babbling of his youth. There was a pride, an eagerness, a solicitude, in the manner of this aged judge which seemed to clasp Northcote like the impersonal devotion of a noble woman to something more radiant but less pure and less rare than that which emanates from herself. In the keenness of his distress it was as much as Northcote could do to refrain from rushing from the room.

“Yet, Mr. Northcote,” the old man went on, “if I say this of your cross-examination, which as far as you are concerned was a thing of the moment, a mere piece of esprit thrown off without premeditation, what shall I say of that address with which you conquered all who listened to it? I speak no longer as a judge, Mr. Northcote; my livery is laid by. As I sat there in court with every chord in my heart responsive to the noble music of your voice, I felt that you had brought home to me that the time had come when I had ceased to be of service to the public. I shall take my seat on the bench no more. But henceforward I shall always carry your words in my heart. They were noble words, nobly spoken; nature has been almost wantonly lavish to you in her gifts. It has been given to you, a young man, to show that the completest abasement of human nature is not in the gutter. I read the deeper and the truer meaning that was innermost, the divine message that was unfolded by the deep vibrations of your singularly beautiful voice. You revealed to one in that court, Mr. Northcote, who should have been engaged in performing his duty to the public, that no sore festers in our social life to-day like the organized degradation of the police-court, where learning, wisdom, courage, and integrity are debased to even fouler depths than the gutter by their constant traffic in human misery. Many times, Mr. Northcote, have I cowered in spirits since I have been called to my office, but it has remained for you, a young advocate, a fledgling of a newer and grander generation, which will touch this material world of ours to finer issues—it has remained for you to knock at the door of the citadel of the oldest of his Majesty’s judges, and to put questions that he cannot answer. You forced him to say to himself, ‘Tell me, Joseph Brudenell, what law you are obeying when you take your seat on these cushions, and you endeavor to fulfil the functions of the office to which you have allowed yourself to be called?’

“When, Mr. Northcote, in the height of your conviction you dared to swear in your own jury, you made every member of it actual and visible to me. You may have been uttering a profounder truth than you knew—which is one of the many prerogatives of genius—when you asserted that every one of those fearful and unhappy tradesmen had that jury within him in the jury-box. As you pointed out, we are the heirs of all the ages: the prisoner and the policeman, the advocate and the judge. And he whom you caused this jury of yours to elect as their foreman showed to me how responsible and authentic that jury was. By the magic, Mr. Northcote, in which you deal, you not only evoked that foreman in the spirit, but by some miracle you clothed him in flesh. That was a terrible achievement. It was the first occasion that the redeemer of mankind was seen to be in the occupation of a seat at the court of Old Bailey.

“I have heard all the great advocates of my time. I was present on that memorable occasion when Selwyn Anstruther made his appeal on behalf of Smith. Anstruther spoke during the whole of three days; as an orator he would, with equal opportunities, have been the peer of Gladstone and John Bright. Anstruther’s tradition is such—he had killed himself with overwork by the time he was forty—that he has become almost a myth. But even this speech of his to which I allude, many phrases of which I can recall after all these years, does not compare forensically with this appeal of yours, to which we had the awful privilege of listening this afternoon.

“Nature, Mr. Northcote, as I have said, has in your case been almost wantonly lavish of her gifts. Like one who was compounded of pure wisdom, you appear to have sprung from Jupiter’s forehead completely armed. You have the voice and presence of the tribune; you add to the power of the demagogue a cool, elastic, and a subtle brain. I know not which to marvel at the more, your almost reckless courage, or that wonderful self-discipline which bends a courser so fiery to your lightest behest.

“You must bear with me in patience, Mr. Northcote, while I exhaust the stock of my superlatives; you see you have carried an old advocate away just as completely, nay, even more completely than you carried those honest laymen. This afternoon you furnished an old warrior, weary of the arena, with a few more of those priceless moments which he had not dared to hope again to enjoy. For over and above all your other qualities you have the divine gift which fuses every quality you possess. You have that sympathetic imagination which is the gift of heaven. It is a key which unlocks every bosom. The rich and the poor must alike bow before it. Things and men, Nature herself, even the universe itself, if you care to address your questions to it, can deny to you none of their secrets. The foreman of your jury, the divine mystic of the Galilean hills, was the man who was endowed with that rare jewel beyond all others; and he, as we read, carried the multitude from place to place and caused the sea to open that it might walk across.”

The voice of the judge grew lower and lower. He had spoken very rapidly, and under the impetus of an excitement almost painful in one of his years. Northcote was entranced by the vivid energy of the old man, and the tremulous emotion with which his words were charged. It seemed to be uncanny that he should be sitting there to listen. There was not a member of the bar who would have identified in the transfigured zealot who was pouring forth such strange words the personality of Bow-wow Brudenell, the irascible old blusterer who was considered to be so unsympathetic and hard to please. There was not a word, not a gesture by which the outer man who had become so “famous” with the public could be recognized. This intense mental energy, burning like a lamp behind the harsh creases in his face, seemed to have refined him and rendered him beautiful. The grand passion which Northcote had unmasked filled the young man with awe. What did his own imperious qualities amount to in the presence of this simplicity? How foolish, how divine it was! This old man, whom he had dubbed in his arrogance the type of all mediocrity, shone forth with a lustre which filled its beholder with shame.

The judge rose from his chair with an effort. Northcote also rose. The old man seized his hand with a humble gesture which yet transcended a parent’s tenderness.

“My dear boy,” he said in a whisper, “I did not call you here to listen to this unbridled praise of your own gifts. But I felt that I must speak all that was in my mind concerning you, because I love you—I love you for what you are and for what you will be. All my life I have had a passion for my profession, and I bring myself to speak these words to you, because I feel that I hold within my grasp the newer, the wiser, the grander generation which has sprung already from the loins of us effete old warriors. You, my dear boy, I dare to prophesy, will be its protagonist. There is not a prize which our profession offers which is not already in your hand. One of these days you will be called to its highest dignities. I foresee that you are likely to become a dictator. The imperious will by which you are impelled invests you with a power that soon or late will control the destinies of the state. Therefore an old public servant ventures to speak to you as he would speak to his own son were he living to hear his words.

“The material lures of your profession are powerful, but I entreat you never to consider them. Be a strong and great advocate who will take his stand only upon truth. In the infinity of your nature you are fitted to walk alone in the strait places. The temptations which will accost one of such powers will not be light ones, but if you can acquire that reverence for your calling, that mediocrities like myself have been endowed with throughout their days owing to the infinite mercy of God, that calling has nothing to fear at your hands. It will derive a new sanction from your genius. But, my dear boy, this is a terrible gift which you possess. It is a two-edged sword, and if in a moment of unwariness, such as has been known to visit the heroes of which we read, one of its sharp edges should be turned against the society in which you dwell, I beseech you to remember the other edge will be turned against yourself. He who affirms this is a humble and aged servitor of truth, and on that plea I beg you to forgive his importunity.”

All this time the judge had been holding Northcote’s hand. Towards the end his voice seemed to fail, but the pressure of his fingers increased.

“These are my last words,” he said feebly. “Guard your trust; take your stand upon truth. May God keep you. One who is old will remember you in his prayers.”

Almost involuntarily the judge placed his hands on the shoulders of the young man and pressed his lips to his forehead.

For a moment Northcote seemed petrified with bewilderment. This strange message from one who had run his course to one who was entering upon his own atrophied the powers of speech and motion. At last he tore his hand from the judge’s weakening grasp and ran from the room. In his flight he seemed to detect the sound of something dull and heavy falling behind him. Yet in the depths of his agitation and his shame he did not stay to look back.

He was soon out in the dark streets. Their coldness and commotion, their secrecy, and above all their freedom, were painfully welcome. He had hardly been able to draw breath in that arena in which he had fought his battle during so many dreadful hours. The old madness of movement, the old insensate desire for liberty overcame him again, and hungry and weary as he was he proceeded to tramp fiercely about the raw winter night.

As he marched without aim hither and thither, up one street and down another, he had no thought of the astonishing victory he had gained. The words of the judge had overcome everything else. They dealt with the future; his victory was already a part of the past. His pride was so arbitrary that it appalled and humiliated him to reflect that any man, that even an aged servitor of the truth, in the moment of renunciation of the arduous labors that had oppressed him for so many years, should have had the temerity to address words of such import to him.

From one pair of eyes at least, his talents, which had at last wrested recognition from a jealous, narrow, conventional world, had not been able to hide the dangers with which they were girt. This aged judge had pierced the secret. Those senile old eyes, alone of those in the court, had seen the pitfalls which lay beneath his triumph.

He ought to have been overwhelmingly happy in this new perambulation of the darkness. Yet the sense of humiliation was paramount. That strength upon which all his life his extravagant hopes had been nourished had proved to be even greater than he had known, but the under side of his nature, to which he had given rein in order to grasp success, opened up possibilities that were strange and awful. Truth and justice had had no meaning for the terrible genie he had called to his aid. They had been used as so many cards in a game. The judge was right: so grievous a prostitution of a noble talent was a grave public danger. On the first occasion it had been employed it had compassed a notable miscarriage of justice.

Towards ten o’clock his wanderings carried him into Leicester Square. He stayed his steps under the ghastly lights of a music hall and made the discovery that he was faint with hunger and fatigue. With a dismal sense of foreboding, which habit had rendered involuntary, he thrust his hands in those pockets which on many occasions had had nothing to yield. To his joy his search was rewarded with a sovereign and a halfpenny. As he held the coins in his fingers a strange weary feeling of gratitude stole over him. His days of bodily privation were at an end. Not again would he know what it was to need food and yet lack the wherewithal of obtaining it. After all he must not dare to deride success. Its attributes were substantial, definite, necessary.

As he crossed the square in search of a restaurant of whose merits he was aware, the large letters of the news-bill of an evening journal caught his eye. Murder Trial—Sensational Speech for the Defence—Scenes in Court—Verdict.

“Here, boy, a paper,” he said, holding out the halfpenny.

He clutched the paper greedily and crumpled it in his fist. It almost seemed as he did so that fame itself was tangible, that it was something that he could crumple in his hand.

In the eating-house he passed a glorious hour in which he devoured beefsteak and potatoes and consumed a tankard of ale. He read the account of the trial over and over again, although as rendered by the evening journal it had no meaning for him. Even the bald résumé of bare facts seemed far otherwise than those as rendered to himself. He could not recognize one of the incidents. Hardly a word was intelligible to the chief actor in that crowded and pregnant drama. “Mr. Norcutt for the defence spoke for two hours fifty-eight minutes. His speech was full of Biblical quotations, and even the judge was affected by it.”

When he turned out again into the streets a newsboy came running round the corner of Shaftesbury Avenue. He was crying, “Here y’are hextry special. Sensational murder trial—sudden deff of the judge.”

Northcote bought another newspaper and opened it under a lamp. In the space reserved for the latest telegrams, these words were printed upside down, “We regret to learn that Mr. Justice Brudenell expired in his room shortly after the conclusion of the murder trial at the Central Criminal Court this evening. The cause of death is believed to be heart failure.”