_THE LAWYER IN HIS OWN DOMAIN._
_Overreach._ 'Tis a rich man's pride! there having ever been
More than a feud, a strange antipathy,
Between us and true gentry.
Mr. Robinson had not forgotten Mrs. Grey, nor the little business
which she had confided to him. With his usual tact and judgment he had
secured his bird, the bird in this case being their common debtor. Like
a clap of thunder, one fine morning the news reached this worthy that
his account had been attached at the bank by the man who for some time
had acted as his solicitor.
He was on his knees at once with abject entreaties, and Mr. Robinson,
who was too Christian-hearted to wish to crush a fellow-creature,
consented to act for him again, thereby in a measure restoring his
credit, but only on one condition--that he should receive without delay
the amount owing for his somewhat exorbitant lawyer's bill.
"But what am I to do, my good sir?" faltered the man; "all I possess is
in your hands."
"And nothing much to boast about," replied the lawyer quietly; "but,
sir, you will not presume to tell me that all you possess is in the
hands of your banker? Pray reflect a moment. In the dealings between
man and man, especially when they hold the relation of solicitor and
client--a relation which I trust will be resumed between us when this
matter is adjusted--there must be frankness, honesty. Come now"--he
spoke jovially--"about that fine house of furniture?"
"My wife's, I assure you--bought with her money."
The lawyer's face fell perceptibly: "Settled then?"
"Not precisely, but the same thing; you see it was in fact a
wedding-present from her father, a man in an excellent position, Mr.
Robinson."
"Ah!" Mr. Robinson showed his teeth. "Law doesn't recognize sentiment,
my dear sir--a pity, clearly, but so it is. The furniture is yours to
dispose of as you will."
The unfortunate man first flushed, then turned pale. "And what has this
to do with it?" he asked rather angrily.
The lawyer raised his hand: "Calmly, calmly. These matters should be
looked in the face, sir--looked in the face. I only speak in your
own interest: that little balance at the bank--very little indeed,
I think--is all you have to look to if you wish to set up again. I
(remember, sir, I too have a wife and children) must be firm in this
matter. A bill of sale on this furniture of yours--or of your wife's,
if you will--can be given to me as security; I will then release your
account and set you on your feet again. What do you say?"
"If it must be, it must be," replied the man with something between a
groan and a sneer.
Mrs. Grey's name, or that unfortunate mortgage of the interest on which
not a penny had been seen for the last year, was not, as it will be
noticed, mentioned between them. One allusion only was made to it.
"We'll allow you to make a start," said Mr. Robinson benevolently,
"and after that it will be time enough to look into those other little
matters that are between us still."
"Those other little matters!" The bare mention of them made the
unfortunate wince, especially when the reference was made to the
accompaniment of Mr. Robinson's hard smile and cold, blue-steel gaze;
but he hoped on, as men in his position will hope, for a stroke of
luck, a good speculation, something to raise his status in the monetary
world.
He drew on his gloves hurriedly: "Yes, yes, my good friend, as you so
kindly say, time enough; I must feel my legs before I disburse, and to
pay up at present would be out-and-out ruin. In the mean time _you_ may
rely upon me. My affairs are in your hands."
So Mr. Robinson felt, and he rubbed his hands pleasantly. The
consciousness of power was always agreeable to him. "I hope so, I hope
so," he replied briskly. "Let me assure you, sir, that I shall watch
you narrowly. In my client's interests you know it is incumbent on me
to be firm."
"But in your own firmer," muttered the man between his teeth as he
went down stairs. "What precious humbugs these lawyers are! If I were
only out of this one's hands!" He clenched his fist and his brows
contracted. That "bill of sale" was rankling in his mind, but moaning
could not mend matters, and he was by no means the only one whom Mr.
Robinson held that day, writhing but submissive, under his cunning hand.
He smiled when the door closed behind his client. This man's
tastefully-decorated house had often awakened in the lawyer's mind not
envy, malice, guile and all uncharitableness, for Mr. Robinson was a
consistent man, but a certain keen admiration that perhaps, looking at
it in the light of the sequel, might have passed very well for their
counterfeit.
The furniture he had admired was in his power; this made the lawyer
smile, but the smile passed into a business frown as a timid rap at the
door announced the approach of one of his clerks.
He was bringing in the letters from the last post, and presenting
those that had been written for the signature of the head of the firm.
Mr. Robinson proceeded slowly to inspect his letters, the young man
standing near him in a quietly respectful attitude.
"Mr. Moon been written to?" he inquired curtly.
"Yes, sir."
"And Mrs. Grey?"
"A letter from her, sir, on the table."
"Right!--wait a moment."
Mr. Robinson did everything in a quiet, business-like way. He proceeded
with great deliberation to open his letters one by one, using a
paper-cutter for the purpose, until he came to the one in question.
"Have you got Mrs. Grey's letter there? Ah!" He tore it across, and
threw the pieces into the waste-paper basket at his side. "Tell Wilson
I will write myself--something wrong there. What are you waiting for?
Do you want anything?"
"Only to say, sir, that you promised--that is, I mean--"
"Say what you mean--can't you?--and don't stand there wasting my time
and your own."
The young fellow's features twitched nervously. He was of good birth
and breeding, though so poor as to accept, and accept thankfully, the
miserable pittance of a lawyer's clerk.
"I have been with you three years, sir," he said with some dignity;
"you promised my mother that if I gave you satisfaction you would give
me my articles. My mother has requested me to ask you whether this
promise is to be fulfilled. My poor father--"
The young man spoke easily now; he was warming to his theme. His poor
father had made Mr. Robinson's fortunes.
As a man of the world he had taken him up, introduced him to his
circle, a large one and influential, and by his recommendations gained
for him clients innumerable.
He was dead, and before his death, by an unfortunate series of
speculations, had ruined his family. His sons had been trained at
school and college, they were at home in the hunting-field, they
excelled in all kinds of manly sports, their pleasant accomplishments
and gentlemanly ease made them welcome in every society, but as men of
business they were practically useless.
Mr. Robinson had been accustomed, only when their father's back was
turned, to sneer at them for fine gentlemen. Nothing aroused his
jealous ire so much as the sight of what he was pleased to call a fine
gentleman, for Mr. Robinson had a certain innate consciousness which
more of his class possess than we generally imagine. It was this: he
knew that in the world he might do his own will, coin money by the
handful (for in his temperament and constitution were all the elements
of success), become rich, powerful, sought out: _one_ distinction
he could never reach. The quiet ease, the graceful nonchalance, the
tone of high breeding which a fine gentleman possesses, as it were,
by instinct, was and would always remain beyond him. And therefore he
professed to despise the class.
"Tush! tush!" he said, breaking short the young man's allusion to him
who had been his friend in those days when he, the great Mr. Robinson,
had been climbing painfully; "don't you attempt to bring home tales to
me or I'll make short work with you. There shall be no snivelling here.
Mind you, it is only respect for your father's memory that induces me
to keep you at all. You're not worth your salt. As to giving you your
articles, what good do you suppose that would do you? Be off! mind your
work, and let me have no more of such whining."
James Robinson was enjoying himself. His blue-gray eyes flashed and
a smile curled his lips. To put down a fine gentleman was the finest
piece of fun in the world, but this time he had gone too far. Suddenly
the boy changed; manhood and manly purposes seemed to look out from
his eyes, the obsequious attitude had gone, he approached his master,
and dared to look him fully and fearlessly in the face: "Then, Mr.
Robinson, hear me. I will sit down no more to your desk; I will bear
your insolence no longer. My mother and I believed you had offered me
a situation out of kindness and gratitude; yes--glare at me if you
will; I repeat it--gratitude to my father's memory. We thought your
intentions honest, and the peculiar ungentlemanliness of your conduct
to be attributed only to your want of good breeding. I may tell you
that yesterday I was offered, and offered pressingly, what you refuse
so insultingly to-day, and by a far better and older firm than yours. I
thought I owed you a certain duty, and would not accept it until I had
put you in mind of your promise. Now I have heard you, and once and for
ever I shake myself free of you, only humiliated that for three long
years I should have associated daily with so base and low a nature."
He turned on his heel, he was gone, leaving Mr. Robinson in a white
heat of rage and indignation. He had been hearing home-truths for once,
and, what was still worse, hearing them in his own domain, the kingdom
he had been accustomed to rule with a rod of iron. For a moment he was
utterly taken aback, breathless, but lest the contagion should spread
self-control and swift action were necessary.
"Let him go, the insolent young beggar!" he muttered; then turning
he rang his bell. The office-boy appeared: "Send Mr. Wilson here."
There was a notable change in his voice; the bully had gone from it,
preparation was being made for the impressive chapel tone.
Mr. Wilson, the head-clerk of the firm, found his chief rather pale and
exhausted, leaning back in his chair.
"Sit down, Wilson," he said with unusual urbanity; "I must have a few
words with you."
The flattered Wilson obeyed.
"You noticed, I dare say," he continued after a pause, "that young
McArthur went out in something of a hurry just now?"
"Yes, sir."
"I am sorry to say that I have been obliged to perform a very
painful duty. I will not enter into details. My deep respect for the
unfortunate youth's family, and especially the memory of his father--a
true Christian, Wilson, one who sleeps in peace--makes me wish that as
far as possible this should be kept a profound secret. Of course I have
dismissed McArthur. It was a duty, and _from_ duty, however painful,
the Christian never shrinks." Mr. Robinson paused to draw his white
handkerchief over his brow. The force of habit is strong. He imagined
himself for the moment on the platform of a gospel-hall. "If he had
been my own son"--Mr. Robinson's face expressed proud consciousness
that a Robinson could never demean himself in so mysterious a way--"if
he had been my own son I could not have felt the matter more keenly;
nor indeed could I have acted differently; the position I hold enforces
upon me a certain responsibility. But this is all to no purpose--a
few words drawn from me, as I might say, by excess of feeling on this
painful occasion. What I particularly wished to say to you, Wilson,
is this: it is my desire that no questions shall be asked in the
house about this unfortunate boy or his sudden dismissal. You may
say, if you like, that he was discontented, tired of the monotony of
office-life--anything; my only wish is that he should be shielded from
exposure. I would give him a chance of buckling to once more. Heaven
grant, if only for his poor mother's sake, that he may see the error
of his ways! But we are wasting time over this unhappy youth. Well,
human nature _is_ human nature, and my feelings toward him were those
of a father. Ah! I remember one thing more. It is my special wish
that none of my clerks shall have intercourse of any kind with young
McArthur. You will understand me, Wilson. The young man is indignant at
discovery--not as yet, I fear, truly penitent. He may wish to injure
the firm. We must be on our guard."
Mr. Wilson was clever as a man of business, but he did not possess
much penetration. He cherished a blind admiration for his chief, and
was quite ready to look upon his every statement as gospel. On this
occasion he did not even stop to consider how very vague and guarded
was all that Mr Robinson had said about the young man he professed to
have dismissed; he was satisfied in his own mind that something dark
lay behind these vague phrases, and was ready to help his chief to
neutralize the mischief.
"All right, sir," he replied quietly; "I will see to the young fellows,
but I scarcely think Mr. McArthur will venture to show his face here.
A pity, too--a fine young man, and tolerably smart, his bringing-up
considered."
"Ah! there it is," replied Mr. Robinson, with unction. "Pride, Wilson,
pride, the crying sin of our fallen nature. His bringing-up was his
ruin. But enough about him. Anything particular for me to-morrow?"
"No, sir; we can manage very well. You think of going into the country?"
"On business. Mrs. Grey is in some new trouble. Unfortunate woman! I
suppose I had better see after the matter myself. I verily believe she
has no friend in the wide world but me. Queer person, too--can't quite
make her out. Send up the rest of the letters, Wilson, and if there
should be anything of importance, telegraph to this address. I may
probably be two or three days away."
Wilson retired, and Mr. Robinson proceeded to inspect the time tables
of the Great Northern. A little change in the early summer weather
would do him a world of good, and Mrs. Grey's business could easily be
prolonged.
Before the letters came in for signature he had decided on an
early-morning train, and was already enjoying by anticipation the
luxury of a series of drives along the coast.