and anxious, spite of manifest effort to appear contemptuously indifferent, sat near the judge, who had just entered the court.  The Archbishop of York, whom we had subpoenaed, why, his Grace had openly declared, he knew not, was also of course accommodated with a seat on the bench.  A formidable bar, led by the celebrated Mr. S ——­, was, I saw, arrayed against us, though what the case was they had to meet, so well had Ferret kept his secret, they knew no more than did their horse-hair wigs.  Ferret had solemnly enjoined the sisters to silence, and no hint, I need scarcely say, was likely to escape my lips.  The jury, special of course, were in attendance, and the case, “Doe, demise of Compton versus Emsdale,” having been called, they were duly sworn to try the issue.  My junior, Mr. Frampton, was just rising “to state the case,” as it is technically called, when a tremendous shouting, rapidly increasing in volume and distinctness, and mingled with the sound of carriage wheels, was heard approaching, and presently Mr. Samuel Ferret appeared, followed by Lady Compton and her son, the rear of the party brought up by Sir Jasper Thornely, whose jolly fox-hunting face shone like a full-blown peony.  The lady, though painfully agitated, looked charmingly; and the timid, appealing glance she unconsciously, as it were, threw round the court, would, in a doubtful case, have secured a verdict.  “Very well got up, indeed,” said Mr. S ——­, in a voice sufficiently loud for the jury to hear—­“very effectively managed, upon my word.”  We were, however, in too good-humor to heed taunts; and as soon as silence was restored, Mr. Frampton briefly stated the case, and I rose to address the jury.  My speech was purposely brief, business-like, and confident.  I detailed the circumstances of the marriage of Violet Dalston, then only eighteen years of age, with a Mr. Grainger; the birth of a son; and subsequent disappearance of the husband; concluding by an assurance to the jury that I should prove, by incontrovertible evidence, that Grainger was no other person than the late Sir Harry Compton, baronet.  This address by no means lessened the vague apprehensions of the other side.  A counsel that, with such materials for eloquence, disdained having recourse to it, must needs have a formidable case.  The smiling countenances of Mr. S ——­ and his brethren became suddenly overcast, and the pallor and agitation of Lord Emsdale sensibly increased.

We proved our case clearly, step by step:  the marriage, the accouchement, the handwriting of Grainger—­Bilston proved this—­to the letters addressed to his wife, were clearly established.  The register of the marriage was produced by the present clerk of the Leeds church; the initials Z.Z. were pointed out; and at my suggestion the book was deposited for the purposes of the trial with the clerk of the court.  Not a word of cross-examination had passed the lips of our learned friends on the other side:  they allowed our evidence to pass as utterly indifferent.  A change was at hand.