"Oh? Well, she's got too good legs to waste herself on such a little place."

They would like to have asked him questions about himself, but feared to seem to lower themselves from their fancied superiority, by showing interest in Peter. One indeed did ask him what business he was in.

"I haven't got to work yet," answered Peter

"Looking for a place" was the mental comment of all, for they could not conceive of any one ent.i.tled to practise law not airing his advantage.

So they went on patronizing Peter, and glorifying themselves. When time had developed the facts that he was a lawyer, a college graduate, and a man who seemed to have plenty of money (from the standpoint of dry-goods clerks) their respect for him considerably increased. He could not, however, overcome his instinctive dislike to them. After the manly high-minded, cultivated Harvard cla.s.smates, every moment of their society was only endurable, and he neither went to their rooms nor asked them to his. Peter had nothing of the sn.o.b in him, but he found reading or writing, or a tramp about the city, much the pleasanter way of pa.s.sing his evenings.

The morning after this first day in New York, Peter called on his friend, the civil engineer, to consult him about an office; for Watts had been rather hazy in regard to where he might best locate that. Mr.

Converse shook his head when Peter outlined his plan.

"Do you know any New York people," he asked, "who will be likely to give you cases?"

"No," said Peter.

"Then it's absolutely foolish of you to begin that way," said Mr.

Converse. "Get into a lawyer's office, and make friends first before you think of starting by yourself. You'll otherwise never get a client."

Peter shook his head. "I've thought it out," he added, as if that settled it.

Mr. Converse looked at him, and, really liking the fellow, was about to explain the real facts to him, when a client came in. So he only said, "If that's so, go ahead. Locate on Broadway, anywhere between the Battery and Ca.n.a.l Street." Later in the day, when he had time, he shook his head, and said, "Poor devil! Like all the rest."

Anywhere between the Battery and Ca.n.a.l Street represented a fairly large range of territory, but Peter went at the matter directly, and for the next three days pa.s.sed his time climbing stairs, and inspecting rooms and dark cells. At the end of that time he took a moderate-sized office, far back in a building near Worth Street. Another day saw it fitted with a desk, two chairs (for Peter as yet dreamed only of single clients) and a shelf containing the few law books that were the monuments of his Harvard law course, and his summer reading. On the following Monday, when Peter faced his office door he felt a glow of satisfaction at seeing in very black letters on the very newly scrubbed gla.s.s the sign of:

PETER STIRLING

ATTORNEY AND COUNSELLOR-AT-LAW.

He had come to his office early, not merely because at his boarding place they breakfasted betimes, but because he believed that early hours were one way of winning success. He was a little puzzled what to do with himself. He sat down at his desk and thrummed it for a minute. Then he rose, and spread his books more along the shelf, so as to leave little s.p.a.ces between them, thinking that he could make them look more imposing thereby. After that he took down a book--somebody "On Torts,"--and dug into it. In the Harvard course, he had had two hours a week of this book, but Peter worked over it for nearly three hours. Then he took paper, and in a very clear, beautifully neat hand, made an abstract of what he had read. Then he compared his abstract with the book. Returning the book to the shelf, very much pleased with the accuracy of his memory, he looked at his watch. It was but half-past eleven. Peter sat down at his desk. "Would all the days go like this?" he asked himself.

He had got through the first week by his room and office-seeking and furnishing. But now? He could not read law for more than four hours a day, and get anything from it. What was to be done with the rest of the time? What could he do to keep himself from thinking of--from thinking?

He looked out of his one window, over the dreary stretch of roofs and the drearier light shafts spoken of flatteringly as yards. He compressed his lips, and resorted once more to his book. But he found his mind wandering, and realized that he had done all he was equal to on a hot July morning. Again he looked out over the roofs. Then he rose and stood in the middle at his room, thinking. He looked at his watch again, to make sure that he was right. Then he opened his door and glanced about the hall. It was one blank, except for the doors. He went down the two flights of stairs to the street. Even that had the deserted look of summer. He turned and went back to his room. Sitting down once more at his desk, and opening somebody "On Torts" again, he took up his pen and began to copy the pages literally. He wrote steadily for a time, then with pauses. Finally, the hand ceased to follow the lines, and became straggly. Then he ceased to write. The words blurred, the paper faded from view, and all Peter saw was a pair of slate-colored eyes. He laid his head down on the blotter, and the erect, firm figure relaxed.

There is no more terrible ordeal of courage than pa.s.sive waiting. Most of us can be brave with something to do, but to be brave for months, for years, with nothing to be done and without hope of the future! So it was in Peter's case. It was waiting--waiting--for what? If clients came, if fame came, if every form of success came,--for what?

There is nothing in loneliness to equal the loneliness of a big city.

About him, so crowded and compressed together as to risk life and health, were a million people. Yet not a soul of that million knew that Peter sat at his desk, with his head on his blotter, immovable, from noon one day till daylight of the next.

CHAPTER IX.

HAPPINESS BY PROXY.

The window of Peter's office faced east, and the rays of the morning sun shining dazzlingly in his eyes forced him back to a consciousness of things mundane. He rose, and went downstairs, to find the night watch-man just opening the building. Fortunately he had already met the man, so that he was not suspected as an intruder; and giving him a pleasant "good-morning," Peter pa.s.sed into the street. It was a good morning indeed, with all that freshness and coolness which even a great city cannot take from a summer dawn. For some reason Peter felt more encouraged. Perhaps it was the consciousness of having beaten his loneliness and misery by mere physical endurance. Perhaps it was only the natural spring of twenty years. At all events, he felt dimly, that miserable and unhopeful as the future looked, he was not conquered yet; that he was going to fight on, come what might.

He turned to the river front, and after bargaining with a pa.s.sing cart for a pint of what the poorer people of the city buy as milk, he turned north, and quickening his pace, walked till he had left the city proper and had reached the new avenue or "drive," which, by the liberality of Mr. Tweed with other people's money, was then just approaching completion. After walking the length of it, he turned back to his boarding-place, and after a plunge, felt as if he could face and fight the future to any extent.

As a result of this he was for the first time late at breakfast The presider over the box-office had ascertained that Peter had spent the night out, and had concluded he would have a gird or two at him. He failed, however, to carry out his intention. It was not the first time that both he and his companions had decided to "roast" Peter, absent, but had done other wise with Peter, present. He had also decided to say to Peter, "Who's your dandy letter-writer?" But he also failed to do that. This last intention referred to a letter that lay at Peters place, and which was examined by each of the four in turn. That letter had an air about it. It was written on linen paper of a grade which, if now common enough, was not so common at that time. Then it was postmarked from one of the most, fashionable summer resorts of the country.

Finally, it was sealed with wax, then very unusual, and the wax bore the impression of a crest. They were all rather disappointed when Peter put that letter in his pocket, without opening it.

Peter read the letter at his office that morning. It was as follows:

GREY-COURT, July 21st.

DEAR. OLD MAN--

Like a fool I overslept myself on the morning you left, so did not get my talk with you. You know I never get up early, and never can, so you have only your refusal to let me in that night to blame for our not having a last chat. If I had had the news to tell you that I now have, I should not have let you keep me out, even if you had forced me to break my way in.

Chum, the nicest girl in the world has told me that she loves me, and we are both as happy as happy can be, I know you will not be in a moment's doubt as to who she is, I have only run down here to break it to my family, and shall go back to the Shrubberies early next week--to talk to Mr. Pierce, you understand!

My governor has decided that a couple of years' travel will keep me out of mischief as well as anything else he can devise, and as the prospect is not unpleasant, I am not going to let my new plans interfere with it, merely making my journeyings a _solitude a deux_, instead of solus. So we shall be married in September, at the Shrubberies, and sail for Europe almost immediately.

Now, I want you to stand by me in this, as you have in other things, and help me through. I want you, in short, to be my "best man" as you have been my Best friend. "Best man," I should inform you, is an English wedding inst.i.tution, which our swell people have suddenly discovered is a necessity to make a marriage ceremony legal. He doesn't do much. Holding his princ.i.p.al's hat, I believe, is the most serious duty that falls to him, though perhaps not stepping on the bridal dresses is more difficult.

My Mamma wants me to drive with her, so this must be continued in our next.

Aff.,

W.

Peter did not read law that morning. But after sitting in his chair for a couple of hours, looking at the opposite wall, and seeing something quite different, he took his pen, and without pause, or change of face, wrote two letters, as follows:

DEAR WATTS:

You hardly surprised me by your letter. I had suspected, both from your frequent visits to the Shrubberies, and from a way in which you occasionally spoke of Miss Pierce, that you loved her. After seeing her, I felt that it was not possible you did not. So I was quite prepared for your news. You have indeed been fortunate in winning such a girl. That I wish you every joy and happiness I need not say.

I think you could have found some other of the fellows better suited to stand with you, but if you think otherwise, I shall not fail you.

You will have to tell me about details, clothes, etc. Perhaps you can suggest a gift that will do? I remember Miss Pierce saying she was very fond of pearls. Would it be right to give something of that kind?

Faithfully yours,

PETER.

DEAR MISS PIERCE:

A letter from Watts this morning tells me of his good fortune.

Fearing lest my blindness may perhaps still give you pain, I write to say that your happiness is the most earnest wish of my life, and nothing which increases it can be other than good news to me.

If I can ever serve you in any way, you will be doing me a great favor by telling me how.

Please give my regards to Mr. and Mrs. Pierce, and believe me,

Yours ever sincerely,

PETER STIRLING.

After these letters were written, Peter studied the wall again for a time. Studied it till long after the hour when he should have lunched.