Properly speaking, it should have been Wellington James, that being the order in which he had been christened in the year 1815. But in course of time, and particularly during his school career, it had been borne in upon him that Wellington is a burdensome name for a commonplace mortal to bear, and very wisely he had reversed the arrangement. He was a slightly pompous but simpleminded little old gentleman, very proud of his position as head clerk to Mr. Stillwood, the solicitor to whom my father was now assistant. Stillwood, Waterhead and Royal dated back to the Georges, and was a firm bound up with the history--occasionally shady--of aristocratic England. True, in these later years its glory was dwindling. Old Mr. Stillwood, its sole surviving representative, declined to be troubled with new partners, explaining frankly, in answer to all applications, that the business was a dying one, and that attempting to work it up again would be but putting new wine into worn-out skins. But though its clientele was a yearly diminishing quantity, much business yet remained to it, and that of a good class, its name being still a synonym for solid respectability; and my father had deemed himself fortunate indeed in securing such an appointment. James Gadley had entered the firm as office boy in the days of its pride, and had never awakened to the fact that it was not still the most important legal firm within the half mile radius from Lombard Street. Nothing delighted him more than to discuss over and over again the many strange affairs in which Stillwood, Waterhead and Royal had been concerned, all of which he had at his tongue's tip. Could he find a hearer, these he would reargue interminably, but with professional reticence, personages becoming Mr. Y. and Lady X.; and places, "the capital of, let us say, a foreign country," or "a certain town not a thousand miles from where we are now sitting." The majority of his friends, his methods being somewhat forensic, would seek to discourage him, but my aunt was a never wearied listener, especially if the case were one involving suspicion of mystery and crime. When, during their very first conversation, he exclaimed: "Now why--why, after keeping away from his wife for nearly eighteen years, never even letting her know whether he was alive or dead, why this sudden resolve to return to her? That is what I want explained to me!" he paused, as was his wont, for sympathetic comment, my aunt, instead of answering as others, with a yawn: "Oh, I'm sure I don't know. Felt he wanted to see her, I suppose," replied with prompt intelligence:
"To murder her--by slow poison."
"To murder her! But why?"
"In order to marry the other woman."
"What other woman?"
"The woman he had just met and fallen in love with. Before that it was immaterial to him what had become of his wife. This woman had said to him: 'Come back to me a free man or never see my face again.'"
"Dear me! Now that's very curious."
"Nothing of the sort. Plain common sense."
"I mean, it's curious because, as a matter of fact, his wife did die a little later, and he did marry again."
"Told you so," remarked my aunt.
In this way every case in the Stillwood annals was reviewed, and light thrown upon it by my aunt's insight into the hidden springs of human action. Fortunate that the actors remained mere Mr. X. and Lady Y., for into the most innocent seeming behaviour my aunt read ever dark criminal intent.
"I think you are a little too severe," Mr. Gadley would now and then plead.
"We're all of us miserable sinners," my aunt would cheerfully affirm;
"only we don't all get the same chances."
An elderly maiden lady, a Miss Z., residing in "a western town once famous as the resort of fashion, but which we will not name," my aunt was convinced had burnt down a house containing a will, and forged another under which her children--should she ever marry and be blessed with such--would inherit among them on coming of age a fortune of seven hundred pounds.
The freshness of her views on this, his favourite topic, always fascinated Mr. Gadley.
"I have to thank you, ma'am," he would remark on rising, "for a most delightful conversation. I may not be able to agree with your conclusions, but they afford food for reflection."
To which my aunt would reply, "I hate talking to any one who agrees with me. It's like taking a walk to see one's own looking-glass. I'd rather talk to somebody who didn't, even if he were a fool," which for her was gracious.
He was a stout little gentleman with a stomach that protruded about a foot in front of him, and of this he appeared to be quite unaware.
Nor would it have mattered had it not been for his desire when talking to approach as close to his listener as possible. Gradually in the course of conversation, his stomach acting as a gentle battering ram, he would in this way drive you backwards round the room, sometimes, unless you were artful, pinning you hopelessly into a corner, when it would surprise him that in spite of all his efforts he never succeeded in getting any nearer to you. His first evening at our house he was talking to my aunt from the corner of his chair. As he grew more interested so he drew his chair nearer and nearer, till at length, having withdrawn inch by inch to avoid his encroachments, my aunt was sitting on the extreme edge of her own. His next move sent her on to the floor. She said nothing, which surprised me; but on the occasion of his next visit she was busy darning stockings, an unusual occupation for her. He approached nearer and nearer as before; but this time she sat her ground, and it was he who in course of time sprang back with an exclamation foreign to the subject under discussion.
Ever afterwards my aunt met him with stockings in her hand, and they talked with a space between their chairs.
