BRIGHTER VISTAS
It was now full summer, and when it is hot in Mariona it is very hot
indeed. The old locusts in the court back of the law offices of Knight,
Kittredge and Carr were green again and venturesome robins paused there
now and then to challenge Opinion and Precedent. There was not much for
unattached young men to do when their day’s work was done. The roof
garden of the Hamilton Club offered itself to those who cared for that
sort of thing, or were zealous in the eternal politics of the place,
from which, save for the roof garden, there was no escape. Or, a man
with an evening on his hands might sit on the lawn about the Tippecanoe
Club, or, better still, with a crony or two, on the balcony that opened
from the second story, where trees shut you in with the stars, and the
music, not of spheres, but of the mechanical piano in the flat next
door. It was possible to obtain there a mint julep compounded under
the direction of an alumnus of the University of Virginia,--a julep
that was happily calculated to lift the smothered, withered spirit
beyond the stars to undiscovered ports of Heaven. You were at perfect
liberty to whisper at the Tippecanoe, as you might not at the Hamilton,
the name of Jefferson; or you might quote Robert Browning or Richard
Cobden without subjecting yourself to fine or imprisonment.
There was the Country Club, another refuge, where college boys sang in
dark corners of the veranda, after a hard day of golf or tennis; or
danced the two-step with sun-browned summer girls. But the Country Club
did not appeal to Morris just now. Zelda did not frequent the club,
and the pretty, gray-eyed golf-champion with whom in other summers he
had played many a round, bowed a little superciliously now when she
passed him in her electric runabout. She did not salute him with a
jangle of the gong as had been her pleasant habit in the genial days
of their comradeship. Nor did the bands in the glittering beer-gardens
tempt him; for there is something not wholly edifying in the passing
spectacle of every one and every one’s cook.
Morris Leighton, lingering long after office hours in the dingy old
library, found the robin’s mournful vesper note solacing. None of the
possible midsummer night diversions appealed to him; he would not even
go up to the Tippecanoe Club for dinner lest some one should break in
upon what he felt to be his mood. He was reveling in that state of mind
in which the young rather enjoy being melancholy. Zelda Dameron snubbed
him persistently--consistently; and Morris was just now persuading
himself that there was nothing left for him but to lose himself in
his work. This is always an interesting stage, at which a young man’s
fancy, interrupted in its flights elsewhere, lightly turns to thoughts
of labor; and Morris was picturing to himself a long and successful,
though austere, life, in which one face and one voice should haunt him.
He was engaged in this sort of agreeable speculation when Mr. Carr,
who had been attending a conference of railroad officials at one of the
hotels, came in unexpectedly, and found his chief clerk engaged in the
profitable pastime of reading decisions of the highest courts in the
land without the slightest notion of what they were about.
“That you, Morris? I thought every one had gone. I want that English
decision you had yesterday in the Transcontinental case.”
“It’s here on the table,” said Morris.
He lighted the gas in the brackets on the wall--they were old and
had lost their pristine shine--and when the jets were lighted they
spurted out queer shapes of flame, in the absurd manner of decrepit
gas-fixtures.
“Thanks, Morris, I’ll take the book home with me. I’m not sure but that
we should lay particular stress on that case.”
“It’s certainly a strong one.”
Carr pushed his panama hat back from his forehead and sat down and read
the page that Morris indicated.
“That’s it! Those old chaps over there still know some law, don’t they?”
He closed the book and drew his hand across the back of it in a way
that was habitual. He liked a book,--you knew it from the way he picked
one up and handled it. Students in the offices of Knight, Kittredge
and Carr who threw books about or left them open, face down, were not
likely to stay long.
“Judge Armstrong of the Appellate Court said a pleasant word to me
about your argument in the Mayberry case yesterday.”
“That’s cheering. I hope he’ll decide our way.”
“There’s no use in worrying about that. He said yours was one of the
best oral arguments he had ever heard. He asked you some questions,
didn’t he?”
Carr looked at Morris with the twinkle in his brown eyes that was his
only outward manifestation of mirth.
“He did, indeed. He stopped me when I reached my most telling point,
and asked me whether our supreme court hadn’t reversed itself in
a decision I was citing. I knew it hadn’t and answered him pretty
promptly,--perhaps I was too cocky about it.”
“Not a bit of it! He would like that. He was feeling you to see how
much confidence you had in your case. He belongs to the old school of
lawyers, who believe in making every case you take the passion of your
life. You evidently made a good impression. It pleased me very much to
have him speak to me about you.”
“Thank you.”
It was not often that Michael Carr’s praise was as direct as this.
“You will have been here four years the first of July.”
“Yes,--thanks to your tolerance.”
“You are the best clerk we ever had in the office, Morris. You are a
good lawyer,--you are a lawyer after my own heart. I’ll have a hard
time finding a clerk to take your place. Do you understand?”
Morris did not understand. The idea of losing his salary as clerk was
not cheering.
“I’m going to check up,” said the old gentleman, settling back in
his chair. “I’m sixty-four years old. I haven’t had any substantial
vacation worth mentioning for twenty years. I’m getting to a time of
life where a man has to think about the end of his days. Our old sign
over the entrance has fallen down, and I take it as a hint that we
need a new one. I have had a sentiment about keeping the name of the
old firm; but it’s misleading to the new generation. I’m tired of the
people that come in here and ask for the dead members. It’s hardly fair
to subject their memories to that kind of treatment. We must drop the
old name.”
“I should hate to see it go,” said Morris. “I’ve always been
particularly proud to answer for the firm at roll-call on rule
mornings.”
“I’m glad you feel that way about it. You never saw Knight or
Kittredge, did you? I’m sure you didn’t. They were great men. There are
no men like them at our bar.” And Michael Carr drew his hand gently
across the book that lay in his lap, and was silent for a moment.
“Do you think you want to live here, Morris? Are you satisfied with the
town?”
“It’s the only one I know. I think a man’s chances are as good here as
anywhere.”
“I think so, too,” said Carr, reflectively. “I have had it in mind for
some time to make you a full partner, changing the name to Carr and
Leighton,--if you are agreeable. Don’t thank me; it’s purely selfish.
You have been virtually a partner for a year. At this bar a law clerk
doesn’t usually do the things that I have set you to doing. I’ve been
glad of your help, and it will add to your influence with the courts to
get away from the clerkship; and in the end that helps me.”
“The clerkship has been a great thing for me; I am in no mood for
spurning it.” Morris’s heart was beating uncomfortably fast. He had
never expected this. The best he had hoped for was a partnership with
some young man at the bar. It was wholly like Michael Carr, though, to
declare his intention in this way. The time and place seemed fitting.
Morris loved the dim old rooms. He has a better office now,--for the
old building has vanished, and the law library that was assembled
through so many years by Knight, Kittredge and Carr is now established
on the top floor of a ten-story building, where there are electric
lights and steam heat.
“You don’t have to thank me for anything, Morris. If you must express a
little gratitude, give it all to Rodney Merriam. It was he that brought
you to me. I’ll have to thank him on my own account.”
“You are the best friend any young man ever had,” said Morris,
feelingly.
“I prefer not to say anything about this change until the first of
July. I’m going abroad then. Mrs. Carr has planned an extensive trip.
I’ve never been over there and I suppose I may as well see it all at
once, as we Americans get the credit for doing. We shall go to England
and Scotland first, and then work our way south with the season. I’m
going to leave you a full measure of work to do while I’m gone.”
“Some of your clients will object. I should hate to see you losing
business on my account.”
“We can afford to lose a few and still have enough. I have a few
clients that I shouldn’t mind losing. Old friends, many of them, who
don’t want legal advice as much as friendly counsel.”
“There are some of them that you have to be pretty patient with.”
“Yes; there is Ezra Dameron. His business is worth little if anything.
He’s always afraid some one will get the advantage of him. I don’t
believe he trusts even me.”
“He’s a picturesque client, but not profitable, I imagine.”
“No; he’s not profitable. But I’ve always done whatever he had to do.
He’s a poor lot, Ezra Dameron. I suppose Mr. Merriam never speaks of
him to you?”
“Never a word.”
“That’s quite characteristic. He hates him like poison, but he has
never intimated as much to me. The Merriams have been at outs with
one another for years. I believe the trouble began when Ezra Dameron
married Margaret Merriam. They were opposed to it.”
“He looks and acts the part of the traditional stage miser. His hammer
and nails are part of his make-up.”
“He’s not attractive, to say the least. The only good thing I know
about him is that his daughter stands by him. We all supposed that
of course she would quit him after a few months; but she seems to be
a Merriam. They are the real thing. Her mother stood by Ezra to the
very last. She never let the family know if she suffered. She was
a beautiful woman. She carried herself with a royal air. You don’t
remember her?”
“No, I never saw her. I’ve seen a portrait of her at Mr. Merriam’s. Her
daughter must be very like her.”
“Yes; they are very like. But there’s a difference; I haven’t made out
what it is. I think Mrs. Dameron hadn’t quite the same spirit; there
was a heart-breaking resignation in her. It got into her face as she
grew older; but the girl hasn’t it.”
The talk drifted into a channel that Carr had not premeditated, but its
direction suited his mood and the hour and place. He had thrown one
short leg over the other and rested at ease in spite of the fact that
it was now past his dinner hour.
“Mrs. Dameron’s will caused a good deal of wonder and gossip when she
died. She had deliberately chosen to carry her faith in her husband
beyond the grave. You’ve seen the will?”
“Yes; the law students here make a study of it.”
“As an example of what a will oughtn’t to be? Well; it was all regular
enough. I prepared it myself. It’s sound enough legally; but foolish
otherwise. She wished to make it quite clear that she trusted her
husband. She had a quixotic idea that, in turning over all her property
to him for the use of their daughter, she was putting a prop under
him to make him stand. He ought to have a pretty good property to
turn over to her at the termination of the trust. That comes,--let me
see,--that comes on Zelda’s twenty-first birthday,--I think it’s next
fall sometime. I suppose you don’t happen to know when Miss Dameron’s
birthday comes?”
Michael Carr’s eyes twinkled, and he looked at Leighton with the smile
the world has for a suspected lover.
“No,” said Leighton, laughing, “I don’t know.”
“Well,” said Michael Carr, rising and thrusting the book under his arm,
“I hope you may know one of these days,--if you want to. Mrs. Carr and
I are both interested in seeing you settled. My wife takes a good deal
of stock in you,--not to say that I don’t! And we have decided that
this would be a happy arrangement. The father-in-law would leave a
good deal to be desired; but that wouldn’t be a consideration.”
“I like the idea,” said Leighton; “but you’ve set the mark too high.”
“Never give up the ship, young man. Demurrers are not necessarily
fatal.”
“I didn’t say that I’d filed my petition yet,” said Morris.
“Better not wait too long,--or you may lose jurisdiction. And there’s
always a statute of limitations that operates in such matter. Are you
going home to dinner with me?”
“No, thank you; I can’t. I wish I could make you understand how much
I appreciate your kindness to me. It isn’t that I’ve learned some
law,--it’s the countless other things that you have done for me since I
came here.”
The old gentleman had walked to the door to get away from Morris’s
thanks, but he turned, with his rare smile.
“Are you keeping up your Horace? An ode once a day! I haven’t missed
mine for forty years. There’s that particularly delightful one--the
sixteenth--I recommend it to you,--the daughter more charming than her
charming mother. A word to the wise! Good night, my boy!”
When Morris heard the outer door close he sat down and thrust his hands
into his trousers pockets and indulged in dreams. He made a practice
of writing once a week to his mother, and he wrote her a letter now,
telling her of his stroke of fortune. “It is almost too good to be
true,” the letter ran. “I’m twenty-six years old, and I’m to be the
partner of the best lawyer in the state, something that I never
expected. I know you will be glad. I only regret that father isn’t here
to rejoice with us.”
He left the office with a quick step and a light heart, and walked to
the post-office to mail his letter. He had known many lonely hours
since moving to Mariona. He glanced up and down Jefferson Street as he
crossed it. The lights, the noisy trolley cars, the great illuminated
signs had all stood to him for loneliness; but he noted them to-night
with a different spirit. He had been for five years an unimportant
member of the community, winning respect from many; working hard,
but enjoying his labor, and he felt a new courage. He had received a
high mark of favor from the first lawyer at the Mariona bar; his name
was to be linked with that of an historic law firm, and with a new
elasticity of spirit he trod the familiar path from the old office to
the federal building, where the United States Court sat. He wondered
what his friend, the clerk of the court, would say when he heard of
the new partnership; and the pleasant thought of the firm name of Carr
and Leighton as it would appear in the court records caused Morris to
parley chaffingly with a belated newsboy who sold him a paper at the
post-office door.
He carried the paper to a table in a hotel restaurant where he
sometimes got his meals, and opened it to the interurban time-table. It
was seven o’clock. He could eat his supper, go to his rooms to change
his clothes, and reach the Damerons’ by half-past eight. His mood of
depression passed, but there still lingered in his heart the sense of
longing, the need for sympathy, that an honest, clean love brings to
the heart of a man.