roderick had been but two days in the office of edward brians, barrister, and already he had learned a great deal. two important facts, not directly connected with the legal profession, had been impressing themselves upon him. the first was that if he were going to reach the goal of success that shone so alluringly ahead of him, he must give every effort and every minute of time to his work; and the second was that he was going to have a hard time concentrating upon it in the various interests of the little town that seemed to demand his attention.
and there was his chief setting him a bad example. the young man had spent part of his first morning wandering through the mass of documents and scraps of paper which lawyer ed called his book-keeping. between items of a professional nature were memoranda or reports of session meetings, highland club meetings, political meetings, country tea-meetings, everything and anything except law. what there was of the latter was connected only with such clients as were of ample means. all the poor folk for miles around came to lawyer ed with their troubles and were advised, scolded, pulled or paid out of them, and never so much as a stroke of a pen to record the good deed. if they paid him, well and good; if they did not, so much the better. and the price of a ticket to the holy land and back—that trip which had not yet materialised—might have been many times written down, had lawyer ed known anything about book-keeping. but lawyer ed's policy in all his career, had been something the same as that of his friend doctor blair across the way—to keep his people of his practice well, rather than to cure them when they were ill. so if he could manage it none of his clients ever went into a law-court. it was good for the clients, but bad for such things as trips abroad. roderick did not see that side of his chief's book-keeping. he did not know that the man could put through more work in an hour than most men could in a day, and saw only the meetings recorded which took so much of his time. and he said to himself that that was not the way to become great. some day he intended to be one of the leading advocates of canada. he was not conceited. his was only the boundless hopefulness of youth coupled with the assurance which experience had already given him, that whenever he set his mind to anything, he accomplished it, no matter how many difficulties stood in the way. so he was determined to concentrate all his efforts on his work, and as for serving humanity, he could do it best, he assured himself, by being a success in his profession.
he was just entering upon his second day when his advice was sought from an unexpected source and in connection with an entirely new subject. lawyer ed had gone out and roderick was seated at his desk when some one entered the hall and tapped hesitatingly on the inner door. roderick called an invitation to come in, and mr. alfred wilbur, in perfect white ducks and white canvas shoes, stepped inside.
"so you've come to be mr. brians' partner, haven't you, mr. mcrae?" he enquired. mr. wilbur was a well-mannered young man and had never adopted the easy familiar way of naming people which was current in the town.
"say rather his office-boy, for a while," said roderick.
mr. wilbur protested. "oh, now, mr. mcrae, you're just quite too modest. every one's saying how well you did at college and school; and that you're going to make your mark—you know you are."
roderick wondered why the young man should take such pains to be polite to him.
"did you want to see lawyer ed?" he asked.
"no, no, thank you," he cried in alarm. "he's not in, is he? no, i just wanted to see you, mr. mcrae—not professionally you understand but—that is—personally,—on a very sacred matter."
his voice dropped to a whisper, he crossed his feet in front of him, then drew them under his chair, twirled his hat, smoothed down the back of his head vigorously, and looked in dismay at the floor.
"i hope i can do something for you," said rod encouragingly, feeling sorry for his evident distress.
"thank you so much!" cried the young man gratefully. "it's about—that is—i think, an old acquaintance of yours—miss murray, the new teacher in the east ward. she is an old acquaintance, isn't she?"
it was roderick's turn to feel hot and look embarrassed. he answered his first client very shortly.
"no, she isn't."
"oh! i thought—you went and spoke to her on the boat!"
"so i did."
"but you met her before surely?" asked the young man, aghast at the notion of roderick's boldness.
"yes."
"in toronto?"
"yes."
"long ago?"
"last autumn."
"is her home there?"
"i believe so. it was then."
"oh, you don't know her very well then?"
"no, i don't. and i don't know why on earth i've got to be put through a catechism about it."
"oh, say! you really must think i'm awful!" cried the poor young man contritely. "i do beg your pardon, mr. mcrae. it really must have sounded shocking to you. but, well—i—did you ever meet a young—any one whom you knew—at first sight—was the one person in all the world for you?" his voice sank. the day was cool and breezy, but poor afternoon tea willie's face was damp and hot and he wiped it carefully with his fine hem-stitched handkerchief, murmuring apologies.
"no, i never did," said roderick quite violently, for no reason at all.
"i beg your pardon, i'm sure," murmured his visitor, vaguely alarmed. "you can't understand my feelings then. but that's really what i felt when i saw her. it was a revelation, one of those swift certain intuitions of the soul, and i—you don't mind my telling you this, do you, mr. mcrae?"
"oh, no, not if you don't mind," said roderick.
"it's so good of you," said poor afternoon tea willie. "you were the only one i could come to, the only one who seemed to know her. she boards at miss armstrong's, but miss annabel—you know miss annabel? no? well, i wouldn't for worlds say anything against a lady, but miss annabel doesn't seem to like me. i don't blame her, you know, but i don't like to go there. it—i seem to bother her dreadfully, so i thought—i knew you wouldn't mind introducing me some time, would you?"
"i really don't know miss murray well enough to do that," said roderick decidedly. "and i wish you wouldn't say anything about our having met before. i don't think she remembers me very well. ask mr. brians to introduce you."
"i did, but he refused."
"perhaps he was only in fun, try him again—or mrs. adam. she teaches with her."
"oh my! the very person." mr. wilbur sprang up. "oh, i can't think why i never thought of her before. i'll call on madame this afternoon. i can't thank you enough, mr. mcrae, for the kind suggestion." the young man hurried out, profusely expressing his gratitude. afternoon tea willie had absolutely nothing in the world to do, but he was always in a hurry. perhaps the reason was that the ladies of the town ordered him about so. he was the most obliging young man, and being always available, he was used to the utmost, and was driven like a galley slave from dawn to dark. as he went down the steps he turned back and looked up at roderick rapturously.
"say!" he whispered. "did you ever see such eyes? don't they make you feel just as if you were going down in an elevator?"
but roderick turned quickly away, with an unreasonable and very unbusinesslike desire to kick his first client down the steps. he had almost closed the door behind him when a loud clear voice from the street called his name. it was just four o'clock, the hour when all the young ladies of algonquin, dressed in their best, walked down to the post-office for the afternoon mail which came in a half-hour earlier. this afternoon post-office parade was a social function, for only people of leisure and distinction were at liberty at that hour. the young gentlemen from the bank generally emerged about that time too, and came striding down to the post-office looking worried and flurried as became gentlemen with the finances of the whole town and half the country weighing them down. after they had all met at the post-office, they went up to the ice-cream and candy palace on main street, or out on the lake, or strolled off into the park.
it was a member of the post-office parade who was hailing roderick so gaily. a pretty group was rustling past the office, all muslin frills and silk sashes and flowers of every colour, and the prettiest and best dressed of them all came running up the steps to his side, with a swish of silken skirts and a whiff of violet perfume.
it was miss leslie graham, the girl he had helped out of the lake, not forlorn and bedraggled now, but immaculate and dainty, from the rose wreath on her big hat to the tip of her white kid shoe.
"hello!" she cried gaily. "i thought you'd surely 'phone over to see whether i needed to make my will or not. you're not much of a lawyer."
roderick laughed. she was so frank and boyish that she put him quite at his ease.
"well,—not knowing i was the family advocate, i didn't like to," he said slyly.
she laughed delightedly. "you're going to be after this, i can tell you. daddy's out of town and he doesn't know yet!"
"there's no need to worry him by telling."
"oh, but there just is. i haven't told a soul yet, and i nearly had to commit murder to keep it from mother. fred's in a pink fit every minute for fear i'll let it out. i've got heaps of fun holding it over his head. it makes him good and obedient. is lawyer ed in?"
"no. do you wish to see him?"
"no, of course not. i just wondered if he wouldn't keep house, though, for a few minutes, while you came along and joined the bunch. we're all going to make alf take us for ice-cream. we spied him leaving here. can't you come?"
"thank you, but i'm afraid i couldn't leave," said roderick, rather taken aback by her frankness. that ideal woman, who sat dimly enthroned in the recesses of his heart, never offered her favours, they had to be sued for, and she was apt to sit in judgment on the girl who departed from her strict rule.
"come on, les!" called a voice from the lingering group she had left. "here's alf. he's going to treat us all. ho! a-a-lf!" the young ladies of algonquin, had lived in such close proximity to each other from childhood that a playmate could always be summoned even from the other end of the town by a clarion call, and they had never seen any reason for changing their convenient method when long skirts and piled-up hair might have been supposed to demand a less artless manner. but then every one shouted across blocks, and besides, every one knew that afternoon tea willie just dearly loved to be yelled at. he whirled about now, waved his hat, and came hurrying back, with the peculiar jerky irregular motion of his feet, that always marked his movements.
"hurrah, leslie!" called her companions again.
"coming!" she cried. "so sorry you can't come," she added, turning to roderick, "but we'll give you another invitation." she looked disappointed, and a little inclined to pout, but she waved her hand as she ran down the steps and joined the group of lace and flowers now fluttering down the side-walk towards the ice cream parlour.
"leslie's made a new conquest," cried a tall girl with flashing black eyes. "he seemed frantically anxious to come with you, my dear. i don't see how you got rid of him."
"who is he, les?" cried another. "if it's a new young man come to this girl-ridden town you simply have got to pass him round and introduce him."
"why, he's lawyer ed's new partner, you goosie," cried a dozen voices, for it was inexcusable for any young lady not to know all about lawyer ed's business.
"a lawyer, how perfectly lovely!" cried a plump little girl with pink cheeks and dancing eyes. "it's such a relief to see some one beside bank boys. i'm going to ask his advice about suing afternoon tea willie for breach of promise. what's his name, leslie?"
"why, his name's roderick mcrae," cried the young lady with the black eyes. "i remember when he used to go to school in a grey homespun suit with the hay sticking all over it. he's the son of old angus mcrae who used to bring our cabbage and lettuce to the back door!"
"mercy!" the plump little girl gave a shriek. "where in the world did you pick him up, leslie?"
the girl whirled about and faced her companions, her eyes blazing, her checks red. "i didn't pick him up at all!" she cried hotly. "he picked me up the other night, out of the lake over by breezy point, where fred hamilton upset me out of his canoe. and if roderick mcrae hadn't come along i'd have been drowned. so now!"
it had all come out in a rush. she had fully intended to shield fred. but she could not see her preserver scoffed at by those baldwin girls. immediately there was a chorus of enquiries and exclamations. afternoon tea willie was overcome with distress and apologised for not being there. old angus mcrae's son immediately became a hero.
the little plump girl with the big blue eyes sighed enviously. "oh dear! how lucky! i think it's a shame all the good things happen to you, leslie; and he's so handsome!"
"i'm going to ask him to join our tennis club," said leslie, looking round rather defiantly.
leslie graham, by virtue of the fact that her mother belonged to the reigning house of armstrong, and her father was the richest man in algonquin, was leader of the younger social set. but miss anna baldwin of the black eyes was her most powerful rival. they were constant companions and very dear friends, and never agreed upon anything. so immediately upon miss graham's daring announcement that this new and very exclusive club should be entered by one not in their set, miss baldwin cried, "oh, how perfectly sweet and democratic! our milkman saved our house from burning down one morning last winter, don't you remember, lou? we must make mamma ask him to her next tea!"
thereupon the group broke up into two sections, one loudly proclaiming its democratic principles, the other as vigorously upholding the necessity for drawing rigid social lines. and they all swept into the ice-cream palace, like a swarm of hot, angry bees, followed by afternoon tea willie in great distress, apologising now to one side, now to the other.
another call from his work came to roderick the next afternoon when he paid his first visit to doctor leslie. the old manse did not look just as hospitable as of old, there were no crowds on the veranda and in the orchard any more. for the foster mother of the congregation had left her children mourning, and gone to continue her good work in a brighter and better world.
viney was still in the kitchen, however, doing all in her power to make the lonely minister comfortable. she had been away from the manse for some years in the interval, but was now returned with a half-grown daughter to help her. viney had left mrs. leslie to marry "mahogany bill," a mulatto from the negro settlement out in oro. but bill had been of no account, and after his not too sadly mourned demise, his wife, promoted to the dignified title of mammy viney, had returned with her little girl to the algonquin manse, and there she was still.
"and your father has you home at last, roderick," said the minister, rubbing his hands with pleasure and surveying the young man's fine honest face with affection. "he has lived for this day. i hope you won't get so absorbed in your practice that you won't be able to run out to the farm often."
"aunt kirsty will see to that," laughed roderick.
the minister beamed. "i'm afraid i shall get into her bad books then, for i am going to keep you here as often as possible. you are just the young man i want in the church, roderick—one who will be a leader of the young men. algonquin is changing," he added sadly. "perhaps because it is growing rapidly. i am afraid there is a rather fast set of young men being developed here. it makes my heart ache to see fine young fellows like fred hamilton and walter armstrong learning to gamble, and yet that is just what is happening. there's a great work here for a strong young man with just your upbringing, my boy. we must save these lads from themselves—'who knoweth,'" he added with a smile, "'but thou hast come to the kingdom for such an hour.'"
there was a great deal more of the same earnest call to work, and roderick went away conscious of a slight feeling of impatience. it was just what his father was always saying, but how was he to attend to his work, if he were to have all the responsibility of the young men of the town and all the people of willow lane upon him? he was inclined to think that every man should be responsible for himself. he was kind-hearted and generous when the impulse came, but he did not want to be reminded that his life's work was to be his brother's keeper. his work was to be a lawyer. he did not yet realise that in being his brother's keeper he would make of himself the best kind of lawyer.
the next evening, when he prepared to go home, lawyer ed declared he must just take his horse and drive him out to the farm and have a visit with angus and a drink of aunt kirsty's butter-milk. so, early in the evening, they drove through the town down towards the pine road. willow lane still stood there. the old houses were more dilapidated than ever, and there were more now than there used to be. doctor blair's horse and buggy stood before one of them. willow lane was on low, swampy ground, and was the abode of fevers and diseases of all sorts.
as they whirled past it, lawyer ed waved his whip towards it in disgust. "that place is a disgrace to algonquin," he blustered. "we boast of our town being the most healthful and beautiful in ontario, and it's got the ugliest and the most unsanitary spot just right there that you'd find in canada. if j. p. gets to be mayor next year he'll fix it up. he's having it drained already. i hope you'll get interested in municipal affairs, rod. i tell you it's great. i'm so glad i'll have more time for town affairs now that you're here. but you must get going there too. there's nothing so bad for a professional man as to get so tied down to his work that he can't see an inch beyond it. you can't help getting interested in this place. it's going ahead so. now, the lake front there—"
lawyer ed was off on his pet scheme, the beautifying of that part of the lake front that was now made hideous by factory and mill and railroad track and rows of tumble-down boathouses.
and roderick listened half-heartedly, interested only because it interested his friend. they passed along the jericho road, with its sweet-smelling pines; the soft mists of early autumn clothed lake algonquin in a veil of amethyst. the long heavy grass by the roadside, and masses of golden-rod shining dimly in the evening-light told that summer had finished her task. she was waiting the call to leave.
lawyer ed was not half through with the esplanade along the lake front when they reached peter mcduff's home. it was a forlorn old weather-beaten house with thistles and mullen and sturdy burdocks growing close to the doorway. an old gnarled apple-tree, weary and discouraged looking, stood at one side of the house, its blackened branches touching the ground. at the other lay a broken plow, on top of a heap of rubbish. a sagging wood-pile and a sorry-looking pump completed the dreariness.
and yet there were signs of a better day. the dilapidated barn was well-built, the fences had once been strong and well put together, and around the house were the struggling remains of an old garden, with many a flower run wild among the thistles. the history of the home had followed that of its owner. peter fiddle had once been a highly respected man, with not a little education. his wife had been a good woman, and when their boy came, for a time, the father had given up his wild ways and his drinking and had settled down to work his little farm. but he never quite gave up the drink, though angus mcrae's hand held him back from it many and many a time. but angus had been ill for a couple of years, and peter had gone very far astray when the helping hand was removed.
he had gone steadily downward until his powers were wasted and his health ruined. his wife gave up the struggle, when young peter was but a child, and closed her tired eyes on the dirt and misery of her ruined home. then angus mcrae had regained his health and his grip on peter, and since then, with many disappointments and backslidings, he had managed to bring him struggling back to a semblance of his old manhood. he was not redeemed yet. but old angus never gave up hope.
poor young peter had grown up dull of brain and heavy of foot, handicapped before birth by the drink. but he had clung doggedly to that one idea which angus mcrae had drilled into him, that he must, as he valued his life, avoid that dread thing which had ruined his father and killed his mother.
lawyer ed pulled up his horse before the house. young peter had not yet come in with the inverness, but he looked about for peter fiddle. he had been sober for a much longer time than usual in this interval, and both he and angus were keeping an anxious, hopeful eye upon him.
"i wonder where peter is," he said.
for answer roderick pointed down the road before them. a horse and wagon stood close to the road-side. they drove up to it, and there, stretched on the seat of his wagon, his horse cropping the grass by the way-side, lay poor old peter, dead drunk.
"well, well, well!" cried lawyer ed in mingled disgust and disappointment. "he's gone again, and your father had such hopes of him!" he gave the lines to roderick and leaped out.
"hi, peter!" he shouted, shaking the man violently. "wake up! it's time for breakfast, man!"
but peter fiddle made no more response than a log. and then a look of boyish mischief danced into lawyer ed's young eyes.
"come here, rod!" he cried. "let's fix him up and see what he'll do when we get back."
roderick alighted and helped unhitch the old horse from the wagon. they led him back to the house, watered him, put him into the old stable and fed him. when they returned, peter still lay asleep on the wagon seat, and they drove off. lawyer ed in a fit of boyish mirth.
it was heavy news for old angus when they sat around the supper table, eating aunt kirsty's apple pie and cream; but the good samaritan was not discouraged. "well, well," he said with a sigh, "he kept away from it longer this time than ever. he's improving. eh, eh, poor body, poor peter!"
"it would seem as if the work of the good samaritan is never done, angus," said lawyer ed. "i suppose there will always be thieves on the jericho road."
"i was just wondering to-day," said angus thoughtfully, "if, while we go on picking up the men on the jericho road, we couldn't be doing something to keep the thieves from doing their evil work. there's peter now. if we can't keep him away from the drink, don't you think we ought to try to keep the drink away from him?"
"lawyer ed'll have to get a local option by-law passed in algonquin, father," said roderick.
"eh, lad," cried the old man, his face radiant, "it is your father would be the happy man to see that day. there is a piece of work for you two now."
"i'm ready," cried lawyer ed enthusiastically. "if i could only see that cursed traffic on the run it would be the joy of my life to encourage it with a good swift kick. we'll start a campaign right away. won't we, rod?"
"all right," cried roderick, pleased at the look in his father's face. "you give your orders. i'm here to carry them out."
"there, angus! you've got your policeman for the jericho road. we'll do it yet. if we get the liquor business down, as grandma armstrong says, we'll knock it conscientious."
old angus followed them to the gate when they drove away, his heart swelling with high hope. he would live to see all his ambitions realised in roderick. he sat up very late that night and when he went to bed and remembered how the lad had promised to help rid peter of the drink curse, he could not sleep until he had sung the long-meter doxology. he sang it very softly, for kirsty was asleep and it might be hard to explain to her if she were disturbed; nevertheless he sang it with an abounding joy and faith.
as roderick and lawyer ed drove homeward, down the moon-lit length of the pine road; they were surprised to hear ahead of them, within a few rods of peter fiddle's house, the sound of singing. very wavering and uncertain, now loud and high, now dropping to a low wail, came the slow splendid notes of kilmarnock to the sublime words of the 103rd psalm.
the two in the buggy looked at each other. "peter!" cried lawyer ed in dismay.
when old peter was only a little bit drunk he inclined to frivolity and gaiety, and was given to playing the fiddle and dancing, but when he was very drunk, he was very solemn, and intensely religious. he gave himself to the singing of psalms, and if propped up would preach a sermon worthy of doctor leslie himself.
a turn in the road brought him into sight. there, between the silver mirror of the moonlit lake and the dark scented green of the forest, insensible to the beauty of either, sat the man. he was perched perilously on the seat of his wagon and was swaying from side to side, swinging his arms about him and singing in a loud maudlin voice, the fine old psalm that he had learned long, long ago before he became less than a man.
lawyer ed pulled up before him.
"oh peter, peter!" he cried, "is this you?"
peter fiddle stopped singing, with the righteously indignant air of one whose devotions have been interrupted by a rude barbarian.
"and who will you be," he demanded witheringly, "that dares to be speaking to the mcduff in such a fashion? who will you be, indeed?"
"come, come, peter, none of that," said his friend soothingly. "i cannot think who you are. you surely can't be my old friend, peter mcduff, sitting by the roadside this way. who are you, anyway?"
peter became suddenly grave. the question raised a terrible doubt in his mind. he looked about him with the wavering gaze of a man on board a heaving ship. his unsteady glance fell on the empty wagon shafts lying on the ground. he looked at them in bewilderment, then took off his old cap and scratched his head.
"how is this, i'd like to know?" demanded lawyer ed, pushing his advantage. "if you're not peter mcduff, who are you? and where is the horse gone?"
roderick climbed out of the buggy, smothering his laughter, and leaving the two to argue the question, he went after the truant horse which might help to establish his master's lost identity. lawyer ed dismounted and helped him hitch it, and apparently satisfied by its reappearance, peter stretched himself on the seat and went soundly asleep again. he lay all undisturbed while they drove him in at his gate, and put his horse away once more. and he did not move even when they lifted him from his perch and, carrying him into the house, put him into his bed.
and just as they entered the town they met poor young peter plodding slowly and heavily towards his dreary home.
"we must do something for those two, rod," said lawyer ed, shaking his head pityingly. "we must get local option or something that'll help peter."
but roderick was thinking of what miss leslie graham had said, and wondering if it might mean that he would be asked to handle the big affairs of graham and company.
