Read Ebook: A B C of Gothic Architecture by Parker John Henry

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Ebook has 890 lines and 54966 words, and 18 pages

The last owner, Simeon Page,--or, as he was called, Squire Page,--joined the great majority two years after an enterprising railroad crept up the Sandgate valley. He had bitterly opposed its entrance into the town and it was asserted that chagrin at his defeat hastened his death. His widow, with their two children, Albert and Alice, and a widowed sister, remained and with the aid of hired men managed the farm. But bushes began to choke the pastures and meadows; the outbuildings grew shabby; the house received no paint; and as the children grew up and needs increased, one by one the broad fields were sold. It had been the squire's ambition that his only son should become a professional man, and carrying out his wishes, Albert's mother had pinched and saved, denying herself all luxuries, and given him a collegiate education. He had graduated with honors; read law; been admitted to the bar; and then returned to Sandgate and opened an office. Alice, three years his junior, had been sent to a boarding-school for two years, where she devoted most of her time to music, then came home again as mother's helpmate.

But the years of self-denial were at an end, for one June day that mother laid down her burden and was placed beside her husband in the village cemetery. Then the two orphans found themselves joint heirs to to an old time-worn house, a few acres of meadow, a couple hundred dollars of debts, and--nothing else. No; that is not right, for they both had youth, good health and habits, and good educations.

Albert, who had rather taken charge of matters since his return to Sandgate, kept the debt situation from Alice after his mother's death, feeling she had grief enough to bear without it, but for all that, it troubled him seriously. The income from his practice was scarcely enough to clothe him and not likely to increase, for Sandgate had scant use for a lawyer; and what to do, or which way to turn, he knew not. If it were not for Alice and Aunt Susan he thought it would be easier, but they must be provided for. Alice, who had been his companion, playmate, and confidant since the days of short dresses, he especially cared for, and that feeling was mutual.

So devoted a brother and sister were they that it had kept them from forming other associations, and when Albert had been asked why he did not escort some other young lady to the husking-bees, barn dances, or church sociables, his usual reply was: "Alice is good enough for me, and when she prefers another beau I may, but not till then."

With Alice, though many of the village swains wooed,--she wouldn't. Even Jim Mears, stalwart, and with a hand like a foot, fared no better, and when Albert rallied her once about young Mears she answered: "Oh, Jim's all right. He isn't handsome, but then, he is strong," which delicate sarcasm may be considered a sufficient reflex of her feelings toward others of the would-be attentive young farmers.

But for all that, Alice was counted in on every festive gathering. If it was a barn dance she was always there and never lacked partners, and when the jolly party rode home in a big wagon filled with straw it was her voice that always started "The Quilting Party," or other old-time ballad usually inspired by moonlight. When a strawberry festival was in order at the church she was given a post of honor, and when Christmas decorations were necessary every young man felt it a privilege to obey her orders. At home she was the same winsome little queen, and had no more devoted subject than her brother.

For a month after the funeral he worried a good deal. He knew that bills had been left unpaid through his mother's illness, and that the family were in straitened circumstances. His own law practice so far had yielded scant returns, and what to do and where to turn was a puzzle. He wrote to a former classmate whose father was a prominent merchant in Boston, stating his situation and asking advice. It was two weeks ere he received a reply, and then, though a cordial letter of sympathy, it did not go far toward solving the problem. A week later, however, came a letter from a lawyer in that city by the name of Frye, offering him a position as assistant in his office at a small salary. It was so small that Albert thought it a hopeless task to pay home expenses out of it and leave anything towards their debts. It was more than his present income, however, and yet to accept the offer and leave Aunt Susan and Alice alone seemed hard. On the other hand, to borrow money on what little of the farm was left did not help matters, for when that was gone, what then?

Matters came to a climax one day, and ended his indecision. He had been away from his office all that afternoon, taking a long stroll in the woods to escape his loneliness, and returning at tea time, found a cloud on his sister's face.

"Mr. Hobbs called this afternoon," she said as they sat down to the table, "and asked for you. Said he went to your office, and not finding you in, came here." And then she added with a quiver in her voice, "Oh, Bertie, we owe him over one hundred dollars!"

The trouble was all out now, and Albert looked gloomy. "I don't think any more of him for coming here to dun us," he answered savagely; "he might have waited until he saw me."

"Oh, he was very nice about it," responded Alice, "and begged my pardon for speaking of it. He said there was no hurry, only that he had made out his bill as a matter of form, etc., and we could pay it when convenient."

Albert made no further comment, but when the meal was ended, said: "Come out on the porch, sis, and let us talk matters over." She followed him, feeling there was trouble coming, and drawing her low chair next to his, placed one elbow on his chair arm and covered her face with that hand. For a few moments he remained silent, watching the fireflies beginning their evening dance over the meadow and listening to the distant call of a whippoorwill. Across the valley the village lights were coming in sight, one by one, and a faint odor of new-mown hay came to him. The pathetic little figure at his side unnerved him, however, and he dreaded to say what he must.

"Well, sis," he said at last, "I've kept matters from you as long as I can. We not only owe Hobbs a good deal, but as much more in smaller bills to others, and there is no money to pay them. I've worried about them more than you know, or than I cared to have you. One of two things must be done, either borrow money and pay these bills or I must go away and earn some."

Then the little head beside him sunk slowly to his chair, and as he began stroking it he added, "I've written to Frank Nason, my old college chum, and through him have received a fair offer to go to Boston, and have decided to accept it. I shall leave here as soon as I can get ready."

The trouble was growing serious now, and as he ceased speaking he caught the sound of a suppressed sob. "Don't cry, Alice," he said tenderly, "it can't be helped. Our home must be broken up sometime and it may as well be now as any other. The thing that worries me most is leaving you and Aunt Susan here alone."

Then the sobs increased and the bowed form beside him shook.

"Oh, Bertie," she said at last in a choked voice, "don't leave us here alone. Let us sell the old house, pay the bills, and if you must go away, let us go too."

"No, dear, that is not best," he answered softly. "I can't earn enough at first to do it. You will have to stay here till I can."

Then the proud spirit that had come to Alice Page from many generations of self-helpful ancestors spoke and she said as she raised her head and brushed away the tears: "If you are to leave me here I shall go to work as well. I can teach school, or do something to help you, and I shall, too!"

Her defiant little speech hurt Albert just a bit and yet he felt proud of her for it. "It may be best for you if you could get a chance to teach," he responded, "and it will help me some, and take up your mind, which is worth a good deal."

But the worst was to come, and the evening before his departure she never forgot. There were some consolations to exchange, however, for she had seen Mr. Mears of the school committee and obtained a position to teach the north district school in Sandgate,--a small by-road schoolhouse, two miles from her home,--and felt a little pride in telling about it; while he had to report that all whom they owed had promised to wait patiently for their dues.

"Mr. Hobbs even offered to lend me money if I needed it," he said after they had talked matters over, "and so, you see, we have a good many friends in Sandgate after all. And now I want you to sing a few of the old songs for me, so that I can have them to think about when I am lonesome and homesick."

But the singing was a failure, for Alice broke down in the middle of the first song and they had to go out and watch the fireflies once more, while she conquered her tears.

"You will write to me every day, won't you, Bertie?" she asked disconsolately, as they waited the next morning for the train that was to separate them. "I shall be so lonesome and blue all the time!"

When he kissed her good-by she could not speak, and the last he saw, as the train bore him away, was that sweet sister's face, trying bravely to smile through its tears, like the sun peeping out of a cloud.

A SPIDER IN HIS DEN

There are lawyers and lawyers. Not all are legalized pickpockets, and not all are imbued with the sole and noble purpose of serving the ends of justice, whether that service lines their pockets or not. Some, and I may say many of them, contrive to reverse matters and to make justice serve them, and if the ways of justice do not conspire to that end, so much the worse for the blind goddess. Modern justice oft-times means the longest purse and the keenest ability to evade the law, and while an unprincipled lawyer will not exactly throttle the mythological maiden who holds the scales, he will, if necessary, so befog her every sense with evasions, subterfuges, and non-pertinent issues that she might just as well have been born deaf and dumb, and without feeling, as well as blind, for all the use she has of those senses. Not only does modern law service frequently resolve itself into a contest of unscrupulous cunning, but modern law-making is occasionally shaped to serve the ends of the profession, instead of justice. While the majority of lawyers are not rascals in name, a good many are at heart, and with the most, when it comes to the question of justice and a small fee and injustice and a big one,--well, draw your own conclusions, all ye who have been fools enough to seek recourse at law.

Lawyers seem to thrive on the passions and vanities of mankind, and many of them are looking for fools who have money and a grievance. The time-worn sarcasm that "After man came woman, and she has been after him ever since" would be more to the point if "lawyer" were substituted for "woman."

But the world is full of fools who thirst for revenge in law, or seem anxious to find some one to dupe them in other ways and always succeed; so Uncle Terry was more than half right when he said, "Thar's a sucker born every minit, an' two ter ketch him."

Of all the smooth, elusive vultures lurking in the shadow of the temple of justice, or perching upon it, Nicholas Frye, or "Old Nick," as many called him, was the most cunning. Nor did his looks belie the comparison, for he had deep-set, shifty, yellow-gray eyes, a hooked nose, and his thin locks, dyed jet black, formed a ring about his bald poll. He walked with a stoop, as if scanning the ground for evidence or clues, and to add to his marked individuality, when he talked he rubbed his hands together as though washing them with invisible soap. It was not from any sense of cleanliness that he did this, for they had many times been soiled willingly in the most nefarious transactions. A client was to him a victim to be kept in waiting; exasperated in regard to his grievances by all possible means; deluded as to his chances of success in quest of justice; deceived as to its cost; and robbed in every way known to an astute lawyer. He had been the legal adviser of John Nason for many years, and when that busy merchant came to him on behalf of his son, who wanted to find a position for Albert Page, Frye readily promised to give him employment. It was not because he needed him, but because he saw at once that through some friendship for this young sprig of the law, as he intuitively considered Albert to be, he could strengthen his hold upon the father and obtain some secrets that might eventually be used to rob him. In plain words, he thought to use this young country lawyer as a spy. He knew that John Nason felt a keen interest in his only son Frank, and that was another reason for employing that son's friend. He knew also that Frank was given a liberal allowance, spent it rapidly, and most likely would be getting into various scrapes needing a lawyer's efforts to rescue him, and so he would have further pickings in that direction. These were two good reasons for his ostensible acts of kindness, and so he at once sent for Page to come.

When, the morning after his arrival in Boston, Albert presented himself at Frye's office, he found that lawyer busy reading his mail.

"Take a seat, sir," said Frye politely, after Albert had introduced himself, "and excuse me until I go through my letters." And then, for a long half hour, Albert was left to study the bare office walls and peculiar looks of his future employer. Finally Frye turned to him and asked rather abruptly: "Well, Mr. Page, what do you know about law?" at the same time scanning him as if expecting to see hayseed adhering to his garments.

"Not much, perhaps," replied Albert modestly, uncertain of his ground. "I have been in practice only a year at Sandgate, and the few people there do not have much use for a lawyer."

"Then why didn't you stir 'em up a little and bring 'em to see they needed your services?" was Frye's next query. "You will never succeed as a lawyer unless you make business. Did you bring your sheepskin with you?"

"No, sir," answered Page, "I didn't think it necessary, after what I wrote you. I have it in my trunk."

"Well, bring it to-morrow," said Frye. "I make it a rule to take nothing for granted and have everything in writing;" and then he added with a searching look, as if he was about to utter a crusher, "What is your idea of a lawyer's chief object in existence?"

Page was a little nonplussed. "Oh, I suppose," he replied slowly, "to see that laws are properly executed and justice done."

Frye looked at him a full minute without making any further comment, while a sardonic grin gradually drew his lips apart, showing a full set of false teeth, and then, as he began rubbing his hands together, he said:

"It's evident, young man, you have much to learn in your profession. Laws are made for lawyers, and are the tools of our trade. If the world does not see fit to use those tools, it is our business to make them, and as for justice, that is an allegory, useful in addressing a jury, but considered a fable by the judge. Laws are useful to oppose other laws with, and various decisions are only good in so far as they help your case and hinder your opponent's.

"You seem an honest-appearing young man, which is well so far as our relations go, but no further. I want an assistant, and one who is ready and willing to do just as I direct and to ask no questions. Do you think you can fill the bill?"

"I can try," replied Albert quietly, "and as soon as I get used to your methods of procedure here I think I can succeed."

He was a little startled at the peculiar character of his employer, and in a way slightly disgusted, but he was not in a position to cavil or feel squeamish over apparent lack of honesty, and resolved at once to ignore it.

"What do you wish me to do?" he continued after a moment. "I will do the best I can for you and am ready to go to work now."

"You are to be at the office at eight o'clock sharp," replied Frye, "take one hour for lunch, and remain till six." Then he added by way of a spur to his slave's fidelity, "I am paying you seventy-five dollars a month on the recommend of an important client of mine who wanted to humor his son. It was your good luck to have this son's friendship, as he belongs to a wealthy family. He is a spendthrift, of course, but that is no matter, and all the better for us. Take my advice, and cultivate him all you can. It may be the means of bringing us more business. What I say to you I shall expect you to consider a professional secret and I hope you will make good use of your time when with this young friend of yours, and heed well what I have said to you."

That ended the interview and Albert was set at work copying legal documents and at the same time trying to reconcile himself to his new surroundings. That night he wrote to Alice: "I have hired out to a most unmitigated old scoundrel, and yet one of the sharpest lawyers I ever met. He assured me I must lay aside my conscience if I mean to succeed and hinted that he might use me later on as a sort of spy upon Frank, I imagine. He employs a stenographer of uncertain age who comes in and takes dictation and does her work outside. The only stupid thing he has said was to warn me not to flirt with her."

Then he wrote to his friend Frank, telling him where he was located, thanking him for his assistance, and begging him to call at an early date. After that he smoked for an hour in glum silence. His room was small and cheerless, and, in comparison with his home quarters, a mere den. But it was a question of saving, and the luxury of space, even, he could not afford. There is no more lonesome place in the wide world than a great city to one born and bred amid the freedom of the wide fields and extended woodlands as Albert had been, and now that he was shut in by brick walls all day, and imprisoned in one small room at night, with a solitary window opening on an area devoted to ash barrels and garbage, it made him homesick. He was a dreamer by nature and loved the music of running brooks, the rustling of winds in the forest, and the song of birds. The grand old mountains that surrounded Sandgate had been the delight of his boyhood, and to fish in the clear streams that tumbled down through narrow gorges and wound amid wide meadows, or in the lily-dotted mill pond, his pastime. He had the artist's nature in him also, and loved dearly to sketch a pretty bit of natural scenery, a cascade in the brook or a shady grotto in the woods. He loved books, flowers, music, green meadows, shady woods, and fields white with daisies. He had been reared among kind-hearted, honest, God-fearing people who seldom locked their doors at night and who believed in and lived by the Golden Rule. The selfish and distrustful life of a great city, with its arrogance and wealth and vanity of display, was not akin to him, and to put himself at the beck and call of a mercenary and utterly unscrupulous old villain, as he believed Frye to be, was gall and bitterness. For two weeks he worked patiently, hoping each day that the one and only friend the city held for him would call, passing his evenings, as he wrote Alice, "in reading, smoking, and hating myself a little, and Frye a good deal."

He had hesitated to write Frank in the first place, disliking to ask favors, but it could not be helped, and now he began to feel that his friend meant to ignore him. This humiliating conclusion was growing to a certainty, and Albert feeling more homesick than ever, when one afternoon, while he was as usual hard at work in Frye's office, Frank came in.

"Pray excuse me, old man," remarked that youth briskly, after the first greetings, "for not calling sooner, but I was off on my yacht about the time you came, and then I ran down to New York to take in the cup races. You see, I'm so busy I do not get any time to myself. I want you to come over to the club and lunch with me to-day, and we can talk matters over."

"You will kindly excuse me," replied Albert. "I have a lot of work cut out, and am only allowed one hour for lunch. Can't you come around to my room to-night and have a smoke-talk?"

"Maybe," replied Frank, "and we can go around to the club later. You will meet some good fellows there, and we always make up a game of draw--small limit, you know. Say, old man," he added interestedly, "how do you like Frye?"

As that worthy happened to be out just then, the two friends had a good chance to exchange opinions. Albert's is already known, but, for reasons, he did not care to express it to Frank at this time.

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