“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?
CHAPTER XI. THE INVITATION
Mr. Eliphalet Hopper, in his Sunday-best broadcloth was a marvel of propriety. It seemed to Stephen that his face wore a graver expression on Sunday when he met him standing on Miss Crane's doorstep, picking the lint from his coat. Stephen's intention was not to speak. But he remembered what the Judge had said to his mother, and nodded. Why, indeed, should he put on airs with this man who had come to St. Louis unknown and unrecommended and poor, who by sheer industry had made himself of importance in the large business of Carvel &, Company? As for Stephen Brice, he was not yet earning his salt, but existing by the charity of Judge Silas Whipple.
“Howdy, Mr. Brice,” said Mr. Hopper, his glance caught by the indefinable in Stephen's costume. This would have puzzled Mr. Hopper's tailor more.
“Very well, thanks.”
“A fine day after the rain.”
Stephen nodded, and Mr. Hopper entered the hours after him.
“Be you asked to Virginia Carvel's party?” he asked abruptly.
“I do not know Miss Carvel,” said Stephen, wondering how well the other did. And if the truth be told, he was a little annoyed at Mr. Hopper's free use of her name.
“That shouldn't make no difference,” said Eliphalet with just a shade of bitterness in his tone. “They keep open house, like all Southerners,” Mr. Hopper hesitated—“for such as come well recommended. I 'most forgot,” said he. “I callate you're not any too well recommended. I 'most forgot that little transaction down to the Court