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_ When Stephen attempted to thank Judge Whipple for going on Hester's bond,
he merely said, "Tut, tut."
The Judge rose at six, so his man Shadrach told Stephen. He had his
breakfast at the Planters' House at seven, read the Missouri Democrat,
and returned by eight. Sometimes he would say good morning to Stephen
and Richter, and sometimes he would not. Mr. Whipple was out a great
part of the day, and he had many visitors. He was a very busy man.
Like a great specialist (which he was), he would see only one person at a
time. And Stephen soon discovered that his employer did not discriminate
between age or sex, or importance, or condition of servitude. In short,
Stephen's opinion of Judge Whipple altered very materially before the end
of that first week. He saw poor women and disconsolate men go into the
private room ahead of rich citizens, who seemed content to wait their
turn on the hard wooden chairs against the wall of the main office.
There was one incident in particular, when a well-dressed gentleman of
middle age paced impatiently for two mortal hours after Shadrach had
taken his card into the sanctum. When at last he had been admitted,
Mr. Richter whispered to Stephen his name. It was that of a big railroad
man from the East. The transom let out the true state of affairs.
"See here, Callender," the Judge was heard to say, "you fellows don't
like me, and you wouldn't come here unless you had to. But when your
road gets in a tight place, you turn up and expect to walk in ahead of my
friends. No, sir, if you want to see me, you've got to wait."
Mr. Callender made some inaudible reply, "Money!" roared the Judge, "take
your money to Stetson, and see if you win your case."
Mr. Richter smiled at Stephen, as if in sheer happiness at this
vindication of an employer who had never seemed to him to need a defence.
Stephen was greatly drawn toward this young German with the great scar
on his pleasant face. And he was itching to know about that scar.
Every day, after coming in from dinner, Richter lighted a great brown
meerschaum, and read the St. Louis 'Anzeiger' and the 'Westliche Post'.
Often he sang quietly to himself:
"Deutschlands Sohne
Laut ertone
Euer Vaterlandgesang.
Vaterland! Du Land des Ruhmes,
Weih' zu deines Heiligthumes
Hutern, uns and unser Schwert."
There were other songs, too. And some wonderful quality in the German's
voice gave you a thrill when you heard them, albeit you could not
understand the words. Richter never guessed how Stephen, with his eyes
on his book, used to drink in those airs. And presently he found out
that they were inspired.
The day that the railroad man called, and after he and the Judge had gone
out together, the ice was broken.
"You Americans from the North are a queer people, Mr. Brice," remarked
Mr. Richter, as he put on his coat. "You do not show your feelings.
You are ashamed. The Judge, at first I could not comprehend him--he
would scold and scold. But one day I see that his heart is warm, and
since then I love him. Have you ever eaten a German dinner, Mr. Brice?
No? Then you must come with me, now."
It was raining, the streets ankle-deep in mud, and the beer-garden by the
side of the restaurant to which they went was dreary and bedraggled. But
inside the place was warm and cheerful. Inside, to all intents and
purposes, it was Germany. A most genial host crossed the room to give
Mr. Richter a welcome that any man might have envied. He was introduced
to Stephen.
"We were all 'Streber' together, in Germany," said Richter.
"You were all what?" asked Stephen, interested.
"Strivers, you might call it in English. In the Vaterland those who seek
for higher and better things--for liberty, and to be rid of oppression--
are so called. That is why we fought in '48 and lost. And that is why
we came here, to the Republic. Ach! I fear I will never be the great
lawyer--but the striver, yes, always. We must fight once more to be rid
of the black monster that sucks the blood of freedom--vampire. Is it not
so in English?"
Stephen was astonished at this outburst.
"You think it will come to war?"
"I fear,--yes, I fear," said the German, shaking his head. "We fear.
We are already preparing."
"Preparing? You would fight, Richter? You, a foreigner?"
"A foreigner!" cried Richter, with a flash of anger in his blue eyes that
died as suddenly as it came,--died into reproach. "Call me not a
foreigner--we Germans will show whether or not we are foreigners when the
time is ripe. This great country belongs to all the oppressed. Your
ancestors founded it, and fought for it, that the descendants of mine
might find a haven from tyranny. My friend, one-half of this city is
German, and it is they who will save it if danger arises. You must come
with me one night to South St. Louis, that you may know us. Then you
will perhaps understand, Stephen. You will not think of us as foreign
swill, but as patriots who love our new Vaterland even as you love it.
You must come to our Turner Halls, where we are drilling against the time
when the Union shall have need of us."
"You are drilling now?" exclaimed Stephen, in still greater astonishment.
The German's eloquence had made him tingle, even as had the songs.
"Prosit deine Blume!" answered Richter, smiling and holding up his glass
of beer. "You will come to a 'commerce', and see.
"This is not our blessed Lichtenhainer, that we drink at Jena. One may
have a pint of Lichtenhainer for less than a groschen at Jena. Aber,"
he added as he rose, with a laugh that showed his strong teeth, "we
Americans are rich."
As Stephen's admiration for his employer grew, his fear of him waxed
greater likewise. The Judge's methods of teaching law were certainly not
Harvard's methods. For a fortnight he paid as little attention to the
young man as he did to the messengers who came with notes and cooled
their heels in the outer office until it became the Judge's pleasure to
answer them. This was a trifle discouraging to Stephen. But he stuck to
his Chitty and his Greenleaf and his Kent. It was Richter who advised
him to buy Whittlesey's "Missouri Form Book," and warned him of Mr.
Whipple's hatred for the new code. Well that he did! There came a
fearful hour of judgment. With the swiftness of a hawk Mr. Whipple
descended out of a clear sky, and instantly the law terms began to rattle
in Stephen's head like dried peas in a can. It was the Old Style of
Pleading this time, without a knowledge of which the Judge declared with
vehemence that a lawyer was not fit to put pen to legal cap.
"Now, sir, the pleadings?" he cried.
"First," said Stephen, "was the Declaration. The answer to that was the
Plea. The answer to that was the Replication. Then came the Rejoinder,
then the Surrejoinder, then the Rebutter, then the Surrebutter. But they
rarely got that far," he added unwisely.
"A good principle in Law, sir," said the Judge, "is not to volunteer
information."
Stephen was somewhat cast down when he reached home that Saturday
evening. He had come out of his examination with feathers drooping. He
had been given no more briefs to copy, nor had Mr. Whipple vouchsafed
even to send him on an errand. He had not learned how common a thing it
is with young lawyers to feel that they are of no use in the world.
Besides, the rain continued. This was the fifth day.
His mother, knitting before the fire in her own room, greeted him with
her usual quiet smile of welcome. He tried to give her a humorous
account of his catechism of the morning, but failed.
"I am quite sure that he doesn't like me," said Stephen.
His mother continued to smile.
"If he did, he would not show it," she answered.
"I can feel it," said Stephen, dejectedly.
"The Judge was here this afternoon," said his mother.
"What?" cried Stephen. "Again this week? They say that he never calls
in the daytime, and rarely in the evening. What did he say?"
"He said that some of this Boston nonsense must be gotten out of you,"
answered Mrs. Brice, laughing. "He said that you were too stiff. That
you needed to rub against the plain men who were building up the West.
Who were making a vast world-power of the original little confederation
of thirteen states. And Stephen," she added more earnestly, "I am not.
sure but what he is right."
Then Stephen laughed. And for a long time he sat staring into the fire.
"What else did he say?" he asked, after a while.
"He told me about a little house which we might rent very cheaply.
Too cheaply, it seems. The house is on this street, next door to Mr.
Brinsmade, to whom it belongs. And Mr. Whipple brought the key, that
we might inspect it to-morrow."
"But a servant," objected Stephen, "I suppose that we must have a
servant."
His mother's voice fell.
"That poor girl whom you freed is here to see me every day. Old Nancy
does washing. But Hester has no work and she is a burden to Judge
Whipple. Oh, no," she continued, in response to Stephen's glance, "the
Judge did not mention that, but I think he had it in mind that Nester
might come. And I am sure that she would."
Sunday dawned brightly. After church Mrs. Brice and Stephen walked down
Olive Street, and stood looking at a tiny house wedged in between, two
large ones with scrolled fronts. Sad memories of Beacon Street filled
them both as they gazed, but they said nothing of this to each other.
As Stephen put his hand on the latch of the little iron gate, a gentleman
came out of the larger house next door. He was past the middle age,
somewhat scrupulously dressed in the old fashion, in swallowtail coat and
black stock. Benevolence was in the generous mouth, in the large nose
that looked like Washington's, and benevolence fairly sparkled in the
blue eyes. He smiled at them as though he had known them always, and
the world seemed brighter that very instant. They smiled in return,
whereupon the gentleman lifted his hat. And the kindliness and the
courtliness of that bow made them very happy. "Did you wish to look at
the house, madam?" he asked "Yes, sir," said Mrs. Brice.
"Allow me to open it for you," he said, graciously taking the key from
her. "I fear that you will find it inconvenient and incommodious, ma'am.
I should be fortunate, indeed, to get a good tenant."
He fitted the key in the door, while Stephen and his mother smiled at
each other at the thought of the rent. The gentleman opened the door,
and stood aside to let them enter, very much as if he were showing them a
palace for which he was the humble agent.
They went into the little parlor, which was nicely furnished in mahogany
and horsehair. And it had back of it a bit of a dining room, with a
little porch overlooking the back yard. Mrs. Brice thought of the dark
and stately high-ceiled dining-room she had known throughout her married
days: of the board from which a royal governor of Massachusetts Colony
had eaten, and some governors of the Commonwealth since. Thank God, she
had not to sell that, nor the Brice silver which had stood on the high
sideboard with the wolves and the shield upon it. The widow's eyes
filled with tears. She had not hoped again to have a home for these
things, nor the father's armchair, nor the few family treasures that were
to come over the mountains.
The gentleman, with infinite tact, said little, but led the way through
the rooms. There were not many of them. At the door of the kitchen he
stopped, and laid his hand kindly on Stephen's shoulder:--
"Here we may not enter. This is your department, ma'am," said he.
Finally, as they stood without waiting for the gentleman, who insisted
upon locking the door, they observed a girl in a ragged shawl hurrying up
the street. As she approached them, her eyes were fixed upon the large
house next door. But suddenly, as the gentleman turned, she caught sight
of him, and from her lips escaped a cry of relief. She flung open the
gate, and stood before him.
"Oh, Mr. Brinsmade," she cried, "mother is dying. You have done so much
for us, sir,--couldn't you come to her for a little while? She thought
if she might see you once more, she would die happy." The voice was
choked by a sob.
Mr. Brinsmade took the girl's hand in his own, and turned to the lady
with as little haste, with as much politeness, as he had shown before.
"You will excuse me, ma'am," he said, with his hat in his hand.
The widow had no words to answer him. But she and her son watched him as
he walked rapidly down the street, his arm in the girl's, until they were
out of sight. And then they walked home silently.
Might not the price of this little house be likewise a piece of the
Brinsmade charity? _
Read next: BOOK I: Volume 2: Chapter XI. The Invitation
Read previous: BOOK I: Volume 2: Chapter IX. A Quiet Sunday in Locust Street
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