Henry
Cruickshank was an able man and, what was rarer a fastidious
politician. He had held office in the Dominion Cabinet,
and had resigned it because of a difference with his
colleagues in the application of a principle; they called
him, after a British politician of lofty but abortive
views, the Canadian Renfaire. He had that independence
of personality, that intellectual candour, and that touch
of magnetism which combine to make a man interesting in
his public relations. Cruickshank's name alone would have
filled the courthouse, and people would have gone away
quoting him.
From the first word of the case for the prosecution there
was that in the leading counsel's manner--a gravity, a
kindness, an inclination to neglect the commoner methods
of scoring--that suggested, with the sudden chill of
unexpectedly bad news, a foregone conclusion. The reality
of his feeling reference to the painful position of the
defendant's father, the sincerity of his regret on behalf
of the bank, for the deplorable exigency under which
proceedings had been instituted, spread a kind of blankness
through the court; men frowned thoughtfully, and one or
two ladies shed furtive tears. Even the counsel for the
defence, it was afterward remembered, looked grave,
sympathetic, and concerned, in response to the brief but
significant and moving sentences with which his eminent
opponent opened the case.
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