CHAPTER X. THE LITTLE HOUSE
When Stephen attempted to thank Judge Whipple for going on Hester'sbond, he merely said, "Tut, tut."
The Judge rose at six, so his man Shadrach told Stephen. He had hisbreakfast at the Planters' House at seven, read the Missouri Democrat,and returned by eight. Sometimes he would say good morning to Stephenand Richter, and sometimes he would not. Mr. Whipple was out a greatpart of the day, and he had many visitors. He was a very busy man. Likea great specialist (which he was), he would see only one person at atime. And Stephen soon discovered that his employer did not discriminatebetween age or sex, or importance, or condition of servitude. In short,Stephen's opinion of Judge Whipple altered very materially before theend of that first week. He saw poor women and disconsolate men go intothe private room ahead of rich citizens, who seemed content to waittheir turn on the hard wooden chairs against the wall of the mainoffice. There was one incident in particular, when a well-dressedgentleman of middle age paced impatiently for two mortal hours afterShadrach had taken his card into the sanctum. When at last he had beenadmitted, Mr. Richter whispered to Stephen his name. It was that of abig railroad man from the East. The transom let out the true state ofaffairs.
"See here, Callender," the Judge was heard to say, "you fellows don'tlike me, and you wouldn't come here unless you had to. But when yourroad gets in a tight place, you turn up and expect to walk in ahead ofmy 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 thisvindication of an employer who had never seemed to him to need adefence.
Stephen was greatly drawn toward this young German with the great scaron his pleasant face. And he was itching to know about that scar.Every day, after coming in from dinner, Richter lighted a great brownmeerschaum, 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'svoice gave you a thrill when you heard them, albeit you could notunderstand the words. Richter never guessed how Stephen, with his eyeson his book, used to drink in those airs. And presently he found outthat they were inspired.
The day that the railroad man called, and after he and the Judge hadgone out together, the ice was broken.
"You Americans from the North are a queer people, Mr. Brice," remarkedMr. Richter, as he put on his coat. "You do not show your feelings. Youare ashamed. The Judge, at first I could not comprehend him--he wouldscold and scold. But one day I see that his heart is warm, and sincethen 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 bythe side of the restaurant to which they went was dreary and bedraggled.But inside the place was warm and cheerful. Inside, to all intents andpurposes, it was Germany. A most genial host crossed the room to giveMr. Richter a welcome that any man might have envied. He was introducedto 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 whoseek for higher and better things--for liberty, and to be rid ofoppression--are so called. That is why we fought in '48 and lost. Andthat is why we came here, to the Republic. Ach! I fear I will never bethe great lawyer--but the striver, yes, always. We must fight once moreto 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. Weare already preparing."
"Preparing? You would fight, Richter? You, a foreigner?"
"A foreigner!" cried Richter, with a flash of anger in his blue eyesthat died as suddenly as it came,--died into reproach. "Call me not aforeigner--we Germans will show whether or not we are foreigners whenthe time is ripe. This great country belongs to all the oppressed. Yourancestors founded it, and fought for it, that the descendants of minemight find a haven from tyranny. My friend, one-half of this city isGerman, and it is they who will save it if danger arises. You must comewith me one night to South St. Louis, that you may know us. Then youwill perhaps understand, Stephen. You will not think of us as foreignswill, 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 thetime when the Union shall have need of us."
"You are drilling now?" exclaimed Stephen, in still greaterastonishment. The German's eloquence had made him tingle, even as hadthe songs.
"Prosit deine Blume!" answered Richter, smiling and holding up his glassof beer. "You will come to a 'commerce', and see.
"This is not our blessed Lichtenhainer, that we drink at Jena. One mayhave 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, "weAmericans are rich."
As Stephen's admiration for his employer grew, his fear of him waxedgreater likewise. The Judge's methods of teaching law were certainly notHarvard's methods. For a fortnight he paid as little attention to theyoung man as he did to the messengers who came with notes and cooledtheir heels in the outer office until it became the Judge's pleasure toanswer them. This was a trifle discouraging to Stephen. But he stuck tohis Chitty and his Greenleaf and his Kent. It was Richter who advisedhim 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 afearful hour of judgment. With the swiftness of a hawk Mr. Whippledescended out of a clear sky, and instantly the law terms began torattle in Stephen's head like dried peas in a can. It was the Old Styleof Pleading this time, without a knowledge of which the Judge declaredwith 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 thePlea. The answer to that was the Replication. Then came the Rejoinder,then the Surrejoinder, then the Rebutter, then the Surrebutter. But theyrarely got that far," he added unwisely.
"A good principle in Law, sir," said the Judge, "is not to volunteerinformation."
Stephen was somewhat cast down when he reached home that Saturdayevening. He had come out of his examination with feathers drooping. Hehad been given no more briefs to copy, nor had Mr. Whipple vouchsafedeven to send him on an errand. He had not learned how common a thingit 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 himwith her usual quiet smile of welcome. He tried to give her a humorousaccount 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 inthe 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. Thatyou needed to rub against the plain men who were building up the West.Who were making a vast world-power of the original little confederationof thirteen states. And Stephen," she added more earnestly, "I am notsure 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 wemight inspect it to-morrow."
"But a servant," objected Stephen, "I suppose that we must have aservant."
His mother's voice fell.
"That poor girl whom you freed is here to see me every day. Old Nancydoes washing. But Hester has no work and she is a burden to JudgeWhipple. Oh, no," she continued, in response to Stephen's glance, "theJudge did not mention that, but I think he had it in mind that Nestermight come. And I am sure that she would."
Sunday dawned brightly. After church Mrs. Brice and Stephen walked downOlive Street, and stood looking at a tiny house wedged in between, twolarge ones with scrolled fronts. Sad memories of Beacon Street filledthem both as they gazed, but they said nothing of this to each other. AsStephen put his hand on the latch of the little iron gate, a gentlemancame out of the larger house next door. He was past the middle age,somewhat scrupulously dressed in the old fashion, in swallowtail coatand black stock. Benevolence was in the generous mouth, in the largenose that looked like Washington's, and benevolence fairly sparkled inthe 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 thecourtliness of that bow made them very happy. "Did you wish to look atthe house, madam?" he asked "Yes, sir," said Mrs. Brice.
"Allow me to open it for you," he said, graciously taking the key fromher. "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 ateach 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 thema palace for which he was the humble agent.
They went into the little parlor, which was nicely furnished in mahoganyand horsehair. And it had back of it a bit of a dining room, with alittle porch overlooking the back yard. Mrs. Brice thought of the darkand stately high-ceiled dining-room she had known throughout her marrieddays: of the board from which a royal governor of Massachusetts Colonyhad eaten, and some governors of the Commonwealth since. Thank God, shehad not to sell that, nor the Brice silver which had stood on the highsideboard with the wolves and the shield upon it. The widow's eyesfilled with tears. She had not hoped again to have a home for thesethings, nor the father's armchair, nor the few family treasures thatwere to come over the mountains.
The gentleman, with infinite tact, said little, but led the way throughthe rooms. There were not many of them. At the door of the kitchen hestopped, and laid his hand kindly on Stephen's shoulder:-- "Here we maynot enter. This is your department, ma'am," said he.
Finally, as they stood without waiting for the gentleman, who insistedupon locking the door, they observed a girl in a ragged shawl hurryingup the street. As she approached them, her eyes were fixed upon thelarge house next door. But suddenly, as the gentleman turned, she caughtsight of him, and from her lips escaped a cry of relief. She flung openthe gate, and stood before him.
"Oh, Mr. Brinsmade," she cried, "mother is dying. You have done so muchfor us, sir,--couldn't you come to her for a little while? She thoughtif she might see you once more, she would die happy." The voice waschoked by a sob.
Mr. Brinsmade took the girl's hand in his own, and turned to the ladywith 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 himas he walked rapidly down the street, his arm in the girl's, until theywere out of sight. And then they walked home silently.
Might not the price of this little house be likewise a piece of theBrinsmade charity?
The Crisis — Complete Page 10