CHAPTER IV
MR. MERRIAM MAKES SUGGESTIONS
The law offices of Knight, Kittredge and Carr were tucked away in the rear of an old building that stood at the apex of a triangle formed by Jefferson Street and Commonwealth Avenue. The firm had been tenants of the same rooms for so many years that any outward sign of their occupancy had ceased to be necessary. There was, to be sure, a battered tin sign at the entrance, but its inscription could be read only by persons who remembered it from bygone days. The woodwork in the series of low rooms occupied by the firm had once been white, but it was now yellow, as though from years of intimacy with dusty file-boxes and law sheep. The library, the quaintest and quietest place in town, was marked by a pleasing twilight of antiquity. Across the hall the private rooms of the several partners were distinguished by their domestic atmosphere, to which the locust-trees that brushed the windows and the grained wooden mantels contributed.
Knight and Kittredge had been prominent in state politics during and immediately following the Civil War. They were dead now, but Carr, who had left politics to his partners, survived, and he had changed nothing in the offices. The private rooms of the dead members of the firm were still as they had been, though Morris Leighton, the chief clerk, and the students who always overran the place now made use of them. Knight, Kittredge and Carr had been considered invincible in the old days; and Carr was still the best lawyer in the state, and the one whose name was most frequently subscribed to the appearance docket of the Federal Court. There were other lawyers who said that he was not what he had been; but they were not the sort whose opinion creates public sentiment or affects the ruling of courts. For though Michael Carr was a mild little man, with a soft voice and brown eyes that might have been the pride of any girl, he was a formidable antagonist. The students in the office affectionately referred to him among themselves as “A. D.,” which, being interpreted, meant Annotated Digest—a delicate reference to the fact that Michael Carr was able to cite cases from memory, by title and page, in nearly every series of decisions that was worth anything.
In the old days it had been the custom of the members of the firm of Knight, Kittredge and Carr to assemble every morning at eight o’clock in the library for a brief discussion of the news of the day, or for a review of the work that lay before them. The young men who were fortunate enough to be tolerated in the offices had always enjoyed these discussions immensely, for Governor Kittredge and Senator Knight had known men and manners as well as the law; and Michael Carr knew Plato and the Greek and Latin poets as he knew the way home.
These morning conferences were still continued in Morris Leighton’s day, though Knight and Kittredge had long been gone. It might be a topic from the day’s news that received attention, or some new book—Michael Carr was a persistent novel reader—or it might be even a bit of social gossip that was discussed. Mr. Carr was a man of deliberate habits, and when he set apart this half-hour for a talk with his young men, as he called them, it made no difference that the president of a great railway cooled his heels in the outer office while the Latin poets were discussed in the library, or that other dignified Caucasians waited while negro suffrage was debated. Mr. Carr did not like being crowded. He knew how to crowd other people when there was need; but it pleased him sometimes to make other people wait.
Ezra Dameron was waiting for him this morning, for it was the first of October; and on the first of every month Ezra Dameron went to the offices of Knight, Kittredge and Carr to discuss his personal affairs. He was of an economical turn, and he made it a point to combine as many questions as possible in a single consultation. His relations with the offices were of long standing and dated back to a day when Knight, Kittredge and Carr were a new firm and Ezra Dameron was a young merchant whom people respected, and whose prospects in life were bright. There had been a time when he was pointed to as a handsome man; but that was very long ago, and he was not an attractive object now, as he moved restlessly about Michael Carr’s private room. He carried a packet of papers in one hand and he walked now and then to a window, whose panes were small and old-fashioned, and looked out upon the locust-trees in the little court. He was clean-shaven, as always. His beak-like nose had given him in his youth an air of imperiousness that was now lacking; it combined with his thin lips and restless gray eyes to give an impression of cruelty. From one pocket of his overcoat the handle of the hammer protruded; and the other bulged with the accompanying nails. There were people who held that his inoffensive carpentry was an affectation, and that he practised it merely to enhance his reputation for penuriousness, a reputation which, the same people said, he greatly enjoyed.
While Ezra Dameron waited for Michael Carr, Rodney Merriam was walking slowly from his house in Seminary Square down High Street to Jefferson, swinging his stick, and gravely returning the salutations of friends and acquaintances. In Mariona, where men of leisure are suspicious characters, it was easy to take Rodney Merriam’s peculiarities far too seriously. When he was at home he lived quietly, as became a gentleman, and those who tried to find something theatrical in his course of life were doomed to disappointment. He was, perhaps, amused to know that his fellow townsmen puzzled over him a good deal and convinced themselves that he was a strange and difficult man,—but that, after all, he was a Merriam, and what could one expect! He usually knew what he was about, however, and when he started for a place he reached it without trouble. Thus he came presently to the offices of Knight, Kittredge and Carr. He stepped into the reception-room and found it empty. The door into the library was closed but he could hear Carr’s voice; and he knew that the lawyer was holding one of those morning talks with his clerks and students that Morris Leighton had often described. He looked about with interest and then crossed the hall. The doors of the three private offices were closed, but he turned the knob of the one marked in small black letters “Mr. Carr,” and went in.
Ezra Dameron was still looking out of the window when the door was flung open. He supposed Carr had come, and having been gazing out into the sunny court, his sight did not accommodate itself at once to the dim light of the little room.
“Ah, Mr. Carr—” he began.
“Good morning, Ezra,” said Rodney Merriam, blandly. Dameron knew the voice before he recognized his brother-in-law, and after a second’s hesitation he advanced with a great air of cordiality.
“Why, Rodney, what brings you into the haunts of the law? I thought you were a man who never got into trouble. I’m waiting for Mr. Carr. I have a standing appointment with him this same day every month—excepting Sundays, of course.”
“So I have understood. I don’t want to see Mr. Carr, however; I want to see you.”
Dameron glanced at his brother-in-law anxiously. He had believed Merriam’s appearance to be purely accidental, and he was not agreeably disappointed to find that he had been mistaken. He looked at the little clock on Carr’s desk, and was relieved to find that the lawyer would undoubtedly appear in a few minutes.
“I should be glad, at any other time, Rodney, but Mr. Carr is very particular about his appointments.”
“I have heard so, Ezra. What I have to say to you will not interfere with your engagement with Mr. Carr.”
Merriam stood with his back to the little grate-fire, holding his hat and stick in his hand.
“As near as I can remember, Ezra, it has been ten years since I enjoyed a conversation with you.”
“Better let the old times go,—I—I—am willing to let them go, Rodney.”
“And on that last occasion, if my memory serves me, I believe I told you that you were an infernal scoundrel.”
“You were very violent, very unjust; but let it all go, Rodney. I treasure no unkind feelings.”
“I think, to be more exact, that I called you a damned cur,” Merriam went on, “and it would be a source of real annoyance to me to have you think for a moment that I have changed my mind. I want to have a word with you about Zelda. She has chosen to go to live with you—”
“Very loyal, very noble of her. I’m sure I appreciate it.”
“I hope you do. She doesn’t understand what a contemptible hound you are, and I don’t intend to tell her. And you may be quite sure that her Aunt Julia will never tell her how you treated her mother,—how you made her life a curse to her. I don’t want you to think that because I have let you alone these ten years I have forgotten or forgiven you. I wouldn’t trust you to do anything that demanded the lowest sense of honor or manhood.”
There was no sign of anger or even resentment in Ezra’s face. His inevitable smile died away in a sickly grin, but he said nothing.
“With this little preface I think you will understand that what I have sought you out for is not to ask favors but to give orders, in view of Zee’s return.”
“But Rodney, Rodney,—that matter needs no discussion. I shall hope to make my daughter happy in her father’s house—I am her natural protector—”
“You are, indeed; but a few instructions from me will be of great assistance, Ezra.”
Dameron sat down, changing his position restlessly several times, so that the loose nails in his pockets jingled.
“To begin with,” Merriam continued, “I want you to understand that the first time I hear you have mistreated that girl or in any way made her uncomfortable I shall horsewhip you in front of the post-office. The second time I shall cowhide you in your own house, and the third offense I shall punish either by shooting you or taking you out and dropping you into the river, I haven’t fully decided which. I expect you to provide generously for her out of the money her mother left her. If you haven’t squandered it there ought to be a goodly sum by this time.”
“I fear she has acquired expensive tastes abroad. Julia always spent money wastefully.”
Dameron smiled and shook his head deprecatingly, with his air of martyrdom. When Merriam shifted from one foot to the other, Dameron started uneasily.
“You ugly hypocrite, talking about expensive tastes! I suppose you have let everybody you know imagine that it has been your money that has kept Zee abroad. It’s like you, and you’re certainly a consistent beast. As I was saying, I mean that you shall treat her well, not according to your own ideas, but mine. I want you to brace up and try to act or look like a white man. You’ve got to keep enough servants in that old shell of yours to take care of it. You must be immensely rich by this time. You haven’t spent any money for twenty years; and you’ve undoubtedly profited well in your handling of what Margaret left Zee. That was like Margaret, to make you trustee of her child’s property, after the dog’s life you had led her! You may be sure that it wasn’t because she had any confidence in you, but because she had borne with you bravely, and it was like her to make an outward show of respect for you from the grave. And I suppose she hoped you might be a man at last for the girl’s sake. The girl’s her mother over again; she’s a thoroughbred. And you—I suppose God tolerates you on earth merely to make Heaven more attractive.”
Merriam at no time raised his voice; the Merriams were a low-spoken family; and when Rodney Merriam was quietest he was most dangerous.
Voices could be heard now across the hall. The morning conference was at an end; and Michael Carr crossed to his room at twenty-five minutes before nine, and opened the door in the full knowledge that Ezra Dameron was waiting for him. Many strange things had happened in the offices of Knight, Kittredge and Carr; but Michael Carr had long ago formed the habit of seeing everything and saying nothing.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said affably, and shook hands with both men.
“I have just been warning Ezra against overwork,” said Merriam, composedly, and without changing his position. “At Ezra’s age a man ought to check himself; he ought to let other people use the hammer and drive the nails.”
“Rodney always had his little joke,” said Dameron, and laughed a dry laugh that showed his teeth in his very unpleasant smile.
“Don’t be in a hurry, Rod,” said Carr.
“Oh, I’m just roaming about, Mike. I find that a morning walk helps my spirits.”
And Merriam wished both gentlemen a satisfactory disposition of their business. It was, of course, a perfectly natural thing for him to drop into a law office on a pleasant October morning and, meeting there a connection of his family, hold converse with him on matters of common interest. Michael Carr was not, however, a dull man, and he understood perfectly that Rodney Merriam had decided to resume diplomatic relations with Ezra Dameron; and he rightly guessed the reason to be the return of Margaret Dameron’s daughter to her father’s house.
Merriam found Morris Leighton at work in the library. The young man threw down his book in surprise as the old gentleman darkened the door.
“The date shall be printed in red ink on the office wall! I never expected to see you here!”
“It may never happen again, my boy. I rarely cross Jefferson Street, except on my way to the station. Is this all you have to do, read books? I sometimes wish I had been a lawyer. Nothing to do but read and write; it’s the easiest business there is. I really think it’s easier than preaching, and it’s safer. My father set me apart for the ministry. He was a good man, but a poor guesser.”
“Mr. Carr would like to see you; I’d be glad to call him,—except that this is his morning with Mr. Dameron.”
“To be sure it is; but don’t trouble yourself. I’ve seen both of them, anyhow.”
“Oh!”
“I just happened in and found Mr. Dameron waiting; so I amused him until Mr. Carr appeared. You still have your historic morning round-up here, I suppose. There are two things that you young gentlemen will undoubtedly derive from Mr. Carr,—good manners and sound literary tastes.”
“That’s so; but how about the law?”
“The law isn’t important. My friend Stanley down here knows the law, they say; but if that’s so, it’s clearly a business for stupid men. He’s built up a reputation by solemnly twirling his glasses and looking wise at the judges. Bah! And yet he fools a great many people; there are some who think he knows more than Carr, simply because he always wears a frock coat. You know he got his walk from Judge Paget. Paget was wounded in the war and had a little limp. Stanley has always tried to imitate him as far as a man without brains can imitate a man with good ones. Stanley’s clumsy shuffle is Judge Paget’s limp as near as Stanley can do it. My dear boy, look solemn, get eye-glasses as soon as possible and twirl them on a black ribbon, having at the same time a far-away look in your eyes. It’s effective; there’s millions in it!”
“That sounds easy. But Mr. Carr has started me on another line. He insists that it’s all work; and he seems to practise what he preaches.”
Merriam glanced at the somber shelves and shrugged his shoulders.
“Maybe Carr’s right. I think he’s right in most things. How soon is he going to take you into partnership?”
“Never, probably. As head clerk he can make me do work that I might want to dodge if I were a partner.”
“Well, he will treat you right. Don’t get restless. The law is changing fast. It has ceased to be a profession nowadays; it’s a business. But somebody’s got to write the briefs that win the cases, just as Carr does, and you’d better get in the line of succession.”
Leighton leaned far back in the cane-bottomed chair—there was never a decent chair in the offices of Knight, Kittredge and Carr—and clasped his hands about his head. A sudden look of liking leaped into Rodney Merriam’s eyes. That lounging pose, the long nervous hands clasped behind the head; the steady gray eyes, the straight nose, firm jaw and humorous kind mouth—all suggested to Merriam other years when there was another Morris Leighton, who wore a blue uniform and drilled his battery to a degree of efficiency that made him a marked man in the Army of the Tennessee.
“I don’t think you will ever want to dodge work or anything else, Morris. That is, if you’re as much like your father inside as out, you won’t be a dodger. Your father was a gentleman, and the tribe is getting scarce.”
Merriam continued talking for an hour, apparently without motive; but he was listening, nevertheless, for signs of life from Michael Carr’s private office.
Mr. Carr was heard presently in the outer hall, and Merriam rose, as though he suddenly remembered an appointment.
“Don’t forget the lobster, Sunday night, as usual,” he said; “and don’t forget what I told you about looking up Mrs. Forrest. She’s been around a bit and knows a few things. Well, gentlemen,”—to Carr and Dameron who were exchanging the last words of their interview in the hall—“I hope you’ve parted on good terms. Going, Ezra? Then I’ll walk down the street with you a little way.”
He took Dameron’s arm and the two men descended to Jefferson Street, which was crowded with shoppers at this hour. Merriam thrust his hand under his brother-in-law’s arm and they walked along with an appearance of intimacy, just as Merriam had planned they should. People turned to look at them, the erect, handsome old man with his shining silk hat, and his bent companion in the faded brown overcoat and dingy derby.
Merriam was exchanging reminiscences of old Seminary days with Dameron. There was, in the long retrospect, extra-territorial ground where these two men could meet without friction. Ezra Dameron knew well enough that his brother-in-law had deliberately planned this meeting and in his heart he resented being carried down Jefferson Street merely that the public might be advised of the fact that two of its citizens were once more on friendly terms after a long period of enmity. But he was a martyr; he had always been a martyr to the insolence of the arrogant Merriam family, and he found a certain hypocritical satisfaction in being abused.
The two men paused at the corner of Wabash Street, where an old hotel was making way for a new structure, and they watched the workmen for a few minutes, commenting on the changes that had latterly removed many landmarks.
“Well, Ezra, no doubt you’re a busy man, as you always used to be, and anxious to get back to work.”
“I have a few repairs to make on some of my little properties.” The purr in Ezra Dameron’s voice was irritating, but Merriam had succeeded in his undertaking of the morning and wished to end the interview amicably. He had outlined a program for Ezra Dameron’s guidance and advertised a reconciliation. Ezra Dameron bored him immensely, and he now wished to be rid of him.
“Don’t forget those little points that I suggested, Ezra. It may encourage you to know that I have my eye on you. Good morning.”
Dameron struck off at a rapid pace toward the southern end of town, and Merriam retraced his steps in Jefferson Street to High.
“I’m a stranger in my own town,” Merriam reflected.
He mailed a letter at the post-office and walked slowly homeward. The federal building with its fort-like walls was doomed. Already its successor was building farther up-town. Perhaps it was just as well so, for the men who were identified in Rodney Merriam’s mind with the old post-office had gone or were going fast. For years after the great war, the federal office-holders had been veteran soldiers. Even the federal judge,—the judge with the brown eyes and the limp that was due to a rebel bullet,—the judge who narrowly missed being president of the United States,—had been one of Grant’s generals. The marshal of the district, a noble military figure to the end of his days, had been a major-general of distinction; and the pension agent, a sturdy German with a tremendous power of invective, who had learned his English by reading Shakespeare, was remembered as one of “Pap” Thomas’s best brigadiers. And there was the district attorney of the old days,—a gentle and winning spirit, who was something of a poet, too. He had been a major at twenty, with a record for gallantry that would read like a chapter of romance, if it could be put on paper. Even the court crier was no longer a crippled veteran, hobbling to his seat on crutches; and there was now an ex-confederate captain in the marshal’s office! The only outpost held by any of the old military coterie was the post-office itself, where a sturdy veteran of both the Mexican and Civil wars still held his own.
But of Rodney Merriam’s intimates none remained. All were gone, those familiar militant spirits, and Rodney Merriam mourned them as a man who has never known a woman’s love or the touch of children’s hands mourns the men that have meant most to him in his life. He could no longer sit in the deep leather chairs in the grim old building when the afternoon light grew dim in the deep embrasured windows, and gossip of bygone days, for the old rooms were occupied now by men whom Merriam did not know; and so far as he was concerned his friends had no successors.
He went home, and after he had made himself comfortable, he stood for a while looking out upon the new flat across the street, which had lately cut off his view, swearing at it in a very pleasant tone of voice.