CHAPTER XII
THE ECCENTRIC CLIENT
Several months passed and bravely did Earle Wayne battle with the world and fate.
Cheerfully, too; for, although he did not permit himself to see much of Editha, lest his purpose not to speak of love should fail him, yet in his heart he knew that she loved him, and would wait patiently until his conscience would allow him to utter the words that should bind her to him.
This he felt he had no right to do until his name could be cleared from the stain resting upon it, and he had also gained a footing and practice in the world that would warrant his asking the aristocratic Miss Dalton to be his wife. It was hard, up-hill work, however, for notwithstanding he had passed a brilliant examination and been admitted to the bar, yet it seemed as if some unseen force or enemy was at work to press him down and keep him from climbing the ladder of either fame or wealth.
And there was such an enemy!
Sumner Dalton hated him. He hated him for what he had so dishonorably learned regarding him—who and what he was—and for the relationship that he bore to that face that he had seen in his mysterious package.
He hated him for the interest which Editha manifested in him, and also because Richard Forrester had desired him to have a portion of his vast fortune, and the former had dared to oppose and defy him regarding the matter.
He could never brook opposition from anyone, and he had always possessed a strange desire to be revenged upon anybody who stood in his way in any form whatever.
It would not do for him to revenge himself directly upon Editha, for she, with all her money, was altogether too important a personage to him, but he knew he could do so indirectly through Earle, and so set himself to work to crush him.
Thus, through his efforts, many a client, who would have gladly availed themselves of the brilliant young lawyer’s services, were influenced to go elsewhere, and their fees, which would have been such a help to Earle in these first dark days went to enrich the already overflowing coffers of some more noted and “respectable” practitioner of Blackstone.
But, for all this, he won for himself some practice, in which he proved himself very successful, and not infrequently gained the admiration of judge, jury, and spectators by his intelligence, shrewdness, and eloquence.
But a covert sneer always followed every effort.
Brother lawyers shrugged their shoulders and remarked, “What a pity it was that so much talent was not better appreciated and that the taint upon his name must always mar his life,” it was a “pity, too, that so fine a young man otherwise, to all outward appearance, could not make a better living; but then people were apt to be shy of employing ‘prison-birds,’ the old proverb ‘set a thief to catch a thief’ to the contrary notwithstanding.”
It was Sumner Dalton who had set this ball a-rolling and had kept it in motion until the day came when Earle was obliged to sit from morning till night in his office, and no one came to him for advice or counsel.
He remembered what Editha had told him to do if he had need—go to Mr. Felton and get enough for his wants, but he was too proud to do this—he would be dependent upon no one but himself.
He could have gone and asked that lawyer to give him work, as he had said he would do; but if he had recourse to his offer, Editha would doubtless hear of it, and, thinking him to be in need, would be made unhappy thereby.
Many a time the tempter whispered, when there was scarcely a dollar left in his purse:
“Never mind, in a few months you will have but to reach forth your hand and pluck the golden harvest that Richard Forrester has set apart for you, and all your trials will be at an end.”
It needed but Editha’s majority and her signature to ensure him independence. But he would not yield.
“I will build up my own foundation, or I will not build at all,” he would say at such times, with a gloomy brow and firmly compressed lips, but with undaunted resolution.
One evening he sat in his office more than usually depressed.
He had not had a single call during the week, and now, as it was beginning to grow dusk, he yielded himself up to the sad thoughts that oppressed him.
It was beginning to storm outside, and as he looked forth into the dismal street, a feeling of desperation and dreariness came over him, such as he had not experienced before.
His office was excessively gloomy, for he did not indulge much in the luxury of gas nowadays, since he had not the wherewith to pay for it. His purse lay upon the table before him—he had been inspecting its contents and counting his money.
All that remained to him in the world was a two-dollar bill and some small pieces of silver.
“It will keep me just one week longer, not counting in any washing,” he muttered; then adding, with a grim smile: “and a lawyer with dirty wristbands and collar is not likely to invite many clients.”
Just then a newsboy passed through the corridor, calling his paper.
“I shall be wrecked indeed if I cannot have the daily news,” Earle said, bitterly, as he sprang impatiently to his feet.
He picked up a bit of silver, and, going to the door, bought a paper.
Coming back, and, as if reckless of consequences, he lighted the gas, turning on the full blaze, and then seating himself comfortably in one chair and putting his feet in another, he began to read.
Scarcely had he done so when he heard a shuffling step outside in the corridor, and then there came a rap on his door.
Wondering who should seek him at that hour, he arose and opened it.
A short, thin-visaged, wiry man, of about fifty, stood without.
With a little bob of his head, he said, in a voice as thin as his face:
“You’re the chap that conducted the Galgren case, ain’t you?”
“Yes, sir; will you come in and have a seat?” Earle replied, politely, yet with a slight smile at the way he had addressed him, and wondering what this rather seedy personage could desire of him.
The man entered and sat down with his hat on, eyeing Earle sharply the while.
“Ain’t doing much just now?” he said, his sharp eyes wandering from him to his empty table, noticing the purse with its scant contents, and then at the books undisturbed on their shelves.
“No, sir, I have not been very busy this week,” Earle quietly replied.
“That Galgren case was a tough one, eh?” the man then remarked, abruptly.
“Rather a knotty problem, that is a fact,” replied Earle, somewhat surprised at the interest the man manifested in a case so long past.
“Would you like another of the same sort, only a thousand times worse?” he asked, with a keen glance.
“I want work, sir, let it be of what kind it may; and I am willing to do almost anything in an honorable way.”
“Well, then, I can give it to you. I’ve a knot that I want untied that is worse than forty Gordian knots woven into one; and if you can untie it, or even cut it asunder for me, as Alexander did of old, and relieve me of the fix I’m in, I think I can promise you something handsome for your trouble.”
“Your statement does not sound very favorable for my being able to do so, but I can try,” Earle replied, the look of bitterness and anxiety beginning to fade out of his face, while his eyes lighted with a look of keenness and eagerness at the thought of work.
He sat up in his chair with a movement full of energy, and then added, with a smile:
“Let me take your hat, sir; then show me this wonderful knot of yours, and we’ll see what can be done with it.”
The man removed his hat, and Earle saw that it was half full of papers, letters, etc., which he turned out upon the table, and then proceeded to unfold the case which he wished the young lawyer to take charge of.
A long conference followed; question after question was put and answered, and every paper looked into and explained, and the clock on the belfry tower nearby struck the hour of midnight before Earle’s strange visitor left him, and a handsome retaining fee as well.
This he did not demand, but the man’s keen eyes had more than once rested on that empty pocketbook lying upon the table, and he doubtless knew that it would not come amiss.
For the next four months, Earle had no need to complain of a lack of work—night and day he toiled, quietly, steadily, persistently, a stern purpose visible in his face, a light in his fine eyes which meant “victory,” if such a result was possible.
This case, which indeed proved a most perplexing one, he felt assured would either “make or mar” his whole future; and, if there was any such thing as winning, he was determined to conquer.
It was to come to trial on the first of October.
He had had about four months to work it up in, and now, on the last night of September, he sat again alone in his office, with folded hands and weary brain, but with a smile of satisfaction lighting up his face instead of the weary expression of bitterness which rested there on that dreary night when he received his first visit from the thin-visaged, wiry man.
He was reasonably sure of success, notwithstanding that the opposing counsel was one of the oldest and ablest lawyers in the city, and he was aware that if he gained the case against him he could not fail to be looked upon with respect for the future.
It provided a tedious trial, for a whole week was occupied in hearing the case, and as point after point, cunning and complicated in the extreme, came up in opposition to the prosecution, and was calmly and clearly rebutted and overthrown, it was plainly to be seen that the tide of popular feeling was turning in favor of the young and gifted lawyer, and Earle felt that his weary labor of four months had been well spent, if it gained him even this.
And who shall describe the eloquence that flowed from his lips as, with his whole heart in his work, he stood up before the multitude and made his plea?
It was clear and concise, witty and brilliant—a masterpiece of rhetoric, logic, and conclusive evidence, combined with a thorough knowledge of all the intricacies of the law, and which did not fail to impress every hearer; and, when at last he sat down, cheer after cheer arose, and a perfect storm of applause that would not be stayed testified to the admiration and conviction which he had excited.
It was a proud moment for Earle Wayne, the poor, despised convict, and Sumner Dalton, sitting there, heard all, and ground his teeth in fiercest rage.
He had not known of the case until almost the last, having been again at Newport. But it had got into the papers recently, and Earle’s name as counsel for the prosecution had attracted his attention, and he had returned to the city and been present during the last few days of the trial.
Something very like a sob burst from our hero’s grateful heart at this acknowledgment of his worth and power, but it was drowned in the din, and, though nearly every eye was fixed upon him, they saw nothing unusual—only a very handsome young man, who looked somewhat pale and worn with hard work and the excitement of the week.
The victory was his; the case was won, for a verdict was rendered in favor of his client, and the men who had hitherto shunned him and curled the lips of scorn and pity for the “poor chap with the stigma resting on his name,” now came forward to shake hands and congratulate him on his victory. His rigid course of study and discipline under Richard Forrester’s direction spoke for itself; he had been a keen, sharp-witted, successful lawyer, and his pupil bade fair to outstrip even his brilliant achievements.
“Who are you?” abruptly asked the wiry, thin-visaged man, as he grasped Earle’s hand in grateful acknowledgment after the court was dismissed.
“I do not think I have changed my identity since I last saw you, sir. I am Earle Wayne,” Earle said, with an amused smile.
“Yes, yes; but I tell you you’ve got blue blood in your veins. A man that can do what you have done is worth knowing, and I want to know what stock you came from.”
A shadow flitted across Earle’s handsome face at these remarks, but it soon passed, and, still smiling, he returned:
“I pretend to no superior attributes; I was a poor boy, without home or friends, until Mr. Forrester took me in and gave me the benefit of his knowledge and instruction. I have been unfortunate also since then, as you very well know, and when you came to me to take charge of this case, I was well-nigh discouraged.”
“I knew it—I knew it, but I knew also that the true grit was in you. I saw it in the Galgren case, and I’ve watched you since. Besides,” with a shrewd look up into the handsome face, “I knew hungry dogs always work hardest for a bone, and they seldom fail to get it, too; that’s one reason I brought you my case, and I’m proud of the result.”
“Thank you, sir,” Earle said, laughing at the simile of the hungry dog. “I am glad that your confidence was not misplaced, and I congratulate you upon our success—it gives you a very handsome fortune.”
“Yes, yes; a decent bit of property, I’ll admit; but how much of it are you going to want?”
Earle colored at his way of putting this question; it seemed to him a trifle surly and ungrateful after his hard work.
“I trust not more than is right, sir; but we will talk of this another time, if you please,” he said, with dignity.
The little man chuckled to himself, as, slipping his arm familiarly within Earle’s, he drew him one side.
“How much do you want? Remember, it takes a good deal to pay for a pound of desk, and you’ve lost a good many since I came to you that night four months ago,” he persisted.
Earle saw that the man was really kind at heart, and meant well by him in spite of his unprepossessing manner.
“And you must remember, sir, that the reputation of this success is worth considerable to me but I suppose this is a very unbusinesslike way to talk, and if you are in a hurry for me to set my fee, I will do so,” and he named a sum which he thought would pay him well for his labor.
The little, thin-visaged, wiry man chuckled again and clapped Earle on the shoulder in an approving manner.
“Very moderate and proper for a youngster, only let me whisper a little bit of advice in your ear, albeit I’m no lawyer. When you can find a fat customer, salt a good slice of him for yourself, and when a lean one comes along, don’t cut in quite so deep. How’s that for counsel?”
“Very good,” Earle said, with a hearty laugh; “but,” with a sparkle of mischief in his eye, as it traversed the thin form of his client from top to toe, “I’m in some doubt as to which class you would prefer to belong to.”
The little man tapped his pockets significantly, and then shoving a hand into each, drew forth two good-sized rolls of bills and showed them to him.
“Fat, youngster, when I’ve any dealings with you, though I can tell you I know how to pinch hard in the right place;” and his wiry fingers closed over the bills in a way that reminded Earle of miniature boa constrictors.
He was a strange character, and though during the trial things had come out which seemed to make him out a miser, harsh and soulless in all his dealings with men, yet Earle thought there must be a spot of goodness and generosity about him somewhere, for he seemed so appreciative of his services. And the result proved he was right.
“I’ll call around and settle tomorrow; I want this thing off my mind; and I reckon you’ve not found many bones to pick besides this during the last four months,” he said at parting.
“No, sir; this gigantic one has occupied all my time and skill.”
“Spoiled any teeth?” his client asked, facetiously.
“No, sir; sharpened them; ready for another,” Earle responded, in the same strain, to carry out the poor joke.
“You’ll do; I would like you for a son; wish I had a daughter—you should marry her;” and the little man, with his characteristic bob of the head, turned and went his way, while Earle, musing upon the events of the day returned to his office, but thinking that if his client happened to have a daughter, he might wish to be excused from a nearer relationship to him, notwithstanding the now plethoric state of his money-bags.
The next morning he received a check for five thousand dollars from the eccentric man, together with an expression of gratitude for his faithful services. And this was the foundation—the “foundation laid with his own hands”—which Earle now began to build upon.
There were no more idle days for him. Work poured in upon him from every side. Success brought countless friends, where before he had not possessed one and he bade fair ere long to fulfill Richard Forrester’s prediction concerning him—that he had a brilliant career before him.
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