THE ADVOCATE

A NOVEL

BY CHARLES HEAVYSEGE,

Author of “Saul,” “Jephthah's Daughter.”
&c., &c., &c.

ILLUSTRATED BY J. ALLAN.

(engraved by John Henry Walker after illustrations by J. Allan)

MONTREAL
RICHARD WORTHINGTON,
GREAT ST. JAMES STREET.

1865.

M. LONGMOORE & CO., PRINTERS.

CONTENTS

• CHAPTER I.
• CHAPTER II.
• CHAPTER III.
• CHAPTER IV.
• CHAPTER V.
• CHAPTER VI.
• CHAPTER VII.
• CHAPTER VIII.
• CHAPTER IX.
• CHAPTER X.
• CHAPTER XI.
• CHAPTER XII.
• CHAPTER XIII.
• CHAPTER XIV.
• CHAPTER XV.

THE ADVOCATE.

CHAPTER I.

Measure for Measure.

On a bright day during the month of September, of the year 1800, two persons were in earnest conversation in a lawyer's office in the city of Montreal. One of them was the most distinguished advocate of that place; a man of some three score years, and of a commanding yet wild and singular aspect. His companion was a well-dressed female of middle age, and comely, though mournful countenance. Some disagreeable topic seemed to have just ruffled both of their tempers, for her face was moist with tears, and darkened with an expression of disappointment. His own was slightly marked with annoyance, and, suddenly ceasing to arrange some folded law papers that he held in his hands, and had gathered up from the table at which he was standing, he exclaimed in tones of mingled surprise and asperity: “Still at the old song! still harping, harping, harping! Peace, no more of it. Heaven would be insufferable with but one hymn, hell thrice horrible with but one howl, earth uninhabitable with but one evil. Oh, variety, what a charm hast thou!”

“Is this, then, all your answer?” enquired the female, sorrowfully.

“Is it not decisive?” he demanded sharply. “Woman, away: am I not busy? Is not this the very Passion week of preparation before the Easter of the Assizes?” Then with an upward leer of his eyes, that were now filled with frolicksome humour, whilst at the corners of his mouth flickered a grim smile, he continued: “Mona Macdonald, I am neither selfish nor sensual, though women call me so; not prone to be provoked to marriage; though Satan in your shape has for so many years tempted me thereto, I have still remained in the bachelors' Eden, in spite of you and the Serpent. Marry you! Do I look in the humour for mischief? Do I appear vile enough to commit the unpardonable sin? No, a man may put himself beyond the reach of mercy by other means than that.”

Mona looked up and sighed, and he continued:

“What more is marriage than mere desert sands, in which life's current is lost until it reappears in a parcel of bubbles called babies. What is it but the fool's end, the knave's means; a warning to the wise, a snare to the simple; the wantonness of youth, the weakness of years; a pillory wherein to exercise patience; what is it but the Church's stocks for the wayward feet of women. Marry you! To marry is to commit two souls to the prison of one body; to put two pigs into one poke; two legs into one boot, two arms into one sleeve, two heads into one hat, two necks into one noose, two corpses into one coffin, and this into a wet grave, for marriage is a perennial spring of tears. Marry! Why should I bind myself with a vow that I must break, not being by nature continent and loving? Marry you! Yes, when I hate you. Have I a sinistrous look to meditate such mischief? Do I seem old enough to be a bridegroom? Pish! I am ashamed to be so importuned.”

This badinage was uttered with the fire of youth, combined with the authority of age, accustomed to be obeyed, and the listener offered no rejoinder; but the speaker, having approached, gazed into her eyes with a twinkling smile of mirth, that gradually changed to one of fondness and pity; and kissing her respectfully, he added in a soft tone: “Come, come, how is the maid Amanda, how fares our charming foundling?”

“Well,” was quietly replied.

“Mona, I love that girl,” he continued, assuming a tone of deep sincerity, “for along with the whole web of your goodness, nature has interwoven into the fine fabric of her form a thread of my evil—not in the grosser sense,—no, no; still, look after her; the breath of passion must be stirring in her, and at her years most maids are tinder to love's dropping sparks. Remember, there never yet was a nun but once had tender thoughts. Love comes unto all that live, and with not less certainty than death's advances —nay, even the cold, bony frame of death itself, at last comes wooing, and elopes with life. Now, home and cheer your charge.” And he playfully