In contrast to the somewhat dingy offices where my father had practised in the Blackwood Block,the quarters of Watling,Fowndes and Ripon on the eighth floor of the new Durrett Building were modern to a degree,finished in oak and floored with marble,with a railed-off space where young women with nimble fingers played ceaselessly on typewriters.One of them informed me that Mr.Watling was busy,but on reading my card added that she would take it in.Meanwhile,in company with two others who may have been clients,I waited.This,then,was what it meant to be a lawyer of importance,to have,like a Chesterfield,an ante-room where clients cooled their heels and awaited one's pleasure...
The young woman returned,and led me through a corridor to a door on which was painted Mr.Wailing.
I recall him tilted back in his chair in a debonnair manner beside his polished desk,the hint of a smile on his lips;and leaning close to him was a yellow,owl-like person whose eyes,as they turned to me,gave the impression of having stared for years into hard,artificial lights.Mr.
Watling rose briskly.
"How are you,Hugh?"he said,the warmth of his greeting tempered by just the note of condolence suitable to my black clothes."I'm glad you came.
I wanted to see you before you went back to Cambridge.I must introduce you to Judge Bering,of our State Supreme Court.Judge,this is Mr.
Paret's boy."
The judge looked me over with a certain slow impressiveness,and gave me a soft and fleshy hand.
"Glad to know you,Mr.Paret.Your father was a great loss to our bar,"he declared.
I detected in his tone and manner a slight reservation that could not be called precisely judicial dignity;it was as though,in these few words,he had gone to the limit of self-commitment with a stranger--a striking contrast to the confidential attitude towards Mr.Watling in which I had surprised him.
"Judge,"said Mr.Watling,sitting down again,"do you recall that time we all went up to Mr.Paret's house and tried to induce him to run for mayor?That was before you went on the lower bench."The judge nodded gloomily,caressing his watch chain,and suddenly rose to go.
"That will be all right,then?"Mr.Watling inquired cryptically,with a smile.The other made a barely perceptible inclination of the head and departed.Mr.Watling looked at me."He's one of the best men we have on the bench to-day,"he added.There was a trace of apology in his tone.
He talked a while of my father,to whom,so he said,he had looked up ever since he had been admitted to the bar.
"It would be a pleasure to me,Hugh,as well as a matter of pride,"he said cordially,but with dignity,"to have Matthew Paret's son in my office.I suppose you will be wishing to take your mother somewhere this summer,but if you care to come here in the autumn,you will be welcome.
You will begin,of course,as other young men begin,--as I began.But Iam a believer in blood,and I'll be glad to have you.Mr.Fowndes and Mr.Ripon feel the same way."He escorted me to the door himself.
Everywhere I went during that brief visit home I was struck by change,by the crumbling and decay of institutions that once had held me in thrall,by the superimposition of a new order that as yet had assumed no definite character.Some of the old landmarks had disappeared;there were new and aggressive office buildings,new and aggressive residences,new and aggressive citizens who lived in them,and of whom my mother spoke with gentle deprecation.Even Claremore,that paradise of my childhood,had grown shrivelled and shabby,even tawdry,I thought,when we went out there one Sunday afternoon;all that once represented the magic word "country"had vanished.The old flat piano,made in Philadelphia ages ago,the horsehair chairs and sofa had been replaced by a nonde furniture of the sort displayed behind plate-glass windows of the city's stores:rocking-chairs on stands,upholstered in clashing colours,their coiled springs only half hidden by tassels,and "ornamental"electric fixtures,instead of the polished coal-oil lamps.Cousin Jenny had grown white,Willie was a staid bachelor,Helen an old maid,while Mary had married a tall,anaemic young man with glasses,Walter Kinley,whom Cousin Robert had taken into the store.As I contemplated the Brecks odd questions suggested themselves:did honesty and warm-heartedness necessarily accompany a lack of artistic taste?and was virtue its own reward,after all?They drew my mother into the house,took off her wraps,set her down in the most comfortable rocker,and insisted on ****** her a cup of tea.
I was touched.I loved them still,and yet I was conscious of reservations concerning them.They,too,seemed a little on the defensive with me,and once in a while Mary was caustic in her remarks.
"I guess nothing but New York will be good enough for Hugh now.He'll be taking Cousin Sarah away from us.""Not at all,my dear,"said my mother,gently,"he's going into Mr.
Watling's office next autumn."
"Theodore Watling?"demanded Cousin Robert,pausing in his carving.
"Yes,Robert.Mr.Watling has been good enough to say that he would like to have Hugh.Is there anything--?""Oh,I'm out of date,Sarah,"Cousin Robert replied,vigorously severing the leg of the turkey."These modern lawyers are too smart for me.
Watling's no worse than the others,I suppose,--only he's got more ability.""I've never heard anything against him,"said my mother in a pained voice."Only the other day McAlery Willett congratulated me that Hugh was going to be with him.""You mustn't mind Robert,Sarah,"put in Cousin Jenny,--a remark reminiscent of other days.
"Dad has a notion that his generation is the only honest one,"said Helen,laughingly,as she passed a plate.
I had gained a sense of superiority,and I was quite indifferent to Cousin Robert's opinion of Mr.Watling,of modern lawyers in general.
