A LAWYER’S STUBBORNNESS.
Edward Salmon was one of the brilliant and successful lawyers of New
York. His office contained family secrets that would tear wide open
the very vitals of society, if he but chose to speak. But he was oily
and discreet, and maid, matron, and millionaire as well, knew that
what went into that massive safe and into Salmon’s wily brain, never
came out again unless it was proper. That was the reason of his great
success. Mr. Salmon was a great success. He had a wondrous practice,
a splendid library, a rich and lovely home; but he had a daughter,
Marie, who had seen fit, as young girls will do sometimes, to fall in
love without parental consultation, and the result was that both father
and daughter were very unhappy. She would not yield to his wishes, and
he would not consent to the man of her choice. Now, Milton Royle, the
sweetheart of Marie, was a noble fellow, but twenty years prior to the
commencement of this story, Royle’s father and the lawyer had a great
difficulty over a law suit, and Salmon had never forgotten or forgiven
what he had always alleged, was the betrayal of Royle’s father, and
he had sworn that he would rather see Marie go wifeless to the grave,
rather than that she should marry a man in whose veins flowed the blood
of the elder Royle. In all other respects he was an indulgent parent,
and was particularly tender to Marie, as the girl had lost her mother,
and was almost alone in the world, not liking or indulging in the
usual frivolities of society and fashion. Her life was spent in art,
and among artists. She was a great friend and admirer of Ouida, and it
was at the studio of the latter, where she had met young Royle, who was
one of the students much favored by the great sculptress.
Salmon was in his office dictating a number of very important
communications to his stenographer. Happening to glance out of the
window overhanging the street, he saw something that evidently caused
him great annoyance. A moment later there was a quick, nervous rap at
the door, and a young girl exquisitely dressed, entered, and coming up,
threw her arms around the lawyer’s neck and kissed him. He received the
embrace with coldness.
“Why, father, what is the matter?” said Marie.
“Matter? It is ridiculous for you to ask such a question. I saw you
just a moment ago on the street, part company with Milton Royle. You
know you always displease me by your association with him.”
“I can’t help it,” said the girl, her voice tinged with unutterable
sadness. “I make no concealment of my love for Milton. I like to be
with him, and am with him whenever he can spare the time from his
studies.”
“And yet you know it angers me beyond expression.”
“And, I think, sir, without reason. You have not a word to say against
Milton’s character, and because you had trouble with his father before
we were born, you want to make us miserable.”
“Now, Marie, you know that is not all. I want you to marry a man worthy
of you.”
“Then let me have Milton,” she pleaded.
“I want no artist in my family,” he sternly said; “they are all a
shiftless and unreliable lot, and one was never known to make a woman
happy. Their attachments are as fleeting as their artistic conceptions.”
“Such argument will not move us. You know, father, I have some of your
blood in my veins, and our race has always been stubborn.”
The old man looked on his daughter with admiration, and going over to
where she sat, he kissed her tenderly.
“Now you are like the dear old dad you used to be.” She gently stroked
his gray hair, and fondling him softly, said: “And you won’t be angry
with my Milton any more?”
“You sly puss; just like your mother was,” and the hardened man of
the world breathed a touching sigh, in the memory of a past that was
fraught with delicious happiness, but which had gone forever.
“Not meaning to change the subject, my dear girl, but about a month ago
I received a large mass of legal documents from Russia, which conveyed
information of a very valuable character to a Russian lad, whose
father had abandoned him here in New York City. I have had a horde
of detectives employed, and they have been unable thus far to locate
him. The last news is contained in a report today, that a person of
that description was employed somewhere in an art studio. Now, you get
around among this class of cattle quite often. His name is Paul--”
“Paul Strogoff?”
“Yes. Do you know anything about him?”
“Yes. He is employed by Ouida Angelo as a model.”
“Good. The fee in the case shall be yours.”
“Cash?” cried out the mercenary little wretch.
“Yes, cash,” said the delighted father, and he forthwith went into the
safe and brought a roll of bank notes, which he gave to Marie.
“Do you desire a receipt for this,” she said, with a smile.
“No,” said Mr. Salmon, “but you might tell your old dad what you are
going to do with so much money.”
“No, I cannot do that,” she replied, with assumed fear.
“Going to waste it on your staff of paupers?”
“No.”
“New dress?”
“No.”
“Pray, what then?”
“Going to buy Milton a birthday present,” as in a mocking fit of
laughter she skipped through the door and vanished from the office.
“The little devil has tricked me,” he said, but there was no anger in
his tone.