Kornicker replied that he thought he could; and taking up his hat, and shaking hands with Harson, and favoring Spite, who was examining the quality of his pantaloons, with a sly kick, he sallied out toward Rust's office.
CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH.
'Come, Spite,' said Harson, when his visitor was gone, 'we must be up and doing. This is not a business that can be trifled with. The longer we put it off, the tighter will the knot be drawn. Stop, until I get the papers.' Leaving the room for a moment, he returned fully equipped for walking; with a huge handkerchief wrapped round his chin, and his broad-brimmed beaver pulled tightly down over his forehead. 'Now my cane, Spite, and we'll see if we can't get to the bottom of this deviltry. We're embarked in a good cause, my old pup, and mustn't give up. Now then! it's a glorious day; the air's bracing, and will make your old bones quite young again. Hey! what spirits you're in!' said he, as Spite, elated at being associated in so important a matter, after wriggling his body in a most convulsive manner, by way of expressing his satisfaction, finally fell over on his back, in an abortive effort to perform a hilarious pirouette on his hind legs. 'Never mind, old fellow,' said Harson, 'pick yourself up; accidents will happen to the best of us. I warrant me you'd have done it better ten years ago; don't be down-hearted about it. We're going to see old Holmes; and when you and I and old Holmes are thoroughly at work in sifting this matter, why Rust had better look sharp. Hey, Spite?'
Thus talking to his dog, or whistling to himself, or exchanging a cheery word with an acquaintance as he passed, the old man trudged along, followed at a very staid pace by his dog, who since his late unsuccessful effort, had fallen into a very serious mood, notwithstanding all the efforts of his master to raise his spirits and to banish the recollection of it from his mind.
The person whom Harson sought was a little antiquated man, who had buried himself among his books, and spent his time in burrowing in out-of-the-way corners of the law. He had wormed his way into all its obsolete nooks, and haunted those regions of it which had become deserted, and as it were grass-grown from long disuse. By degrees he had slunk from a practice which had once promised to be large; and a name which had once bid fair to shine brightly in the annals of the law, gradually grew faint in memory, as its owner was missed from those places where the constant rush of the crowd soon wears out any impress made by those who are no longer seen. But there were times when the old man looked out from his den, and prowled among those who had crowded in his place; and there were times, (but those were on rare occasions, when some exciting case would be on the carpet,) when an old man would steal into the court-room, with a bundle of papers under his arm; and would take his seat at the table among the counsel engaged in the case; sitting silent throughout the whole; speaking to none; taking no notes; watching the witnesses with his dim eyes; studying the faces of the jury; occasionally referred to by the other counsel; but taking no part in any discussions until the evidence was closed, and the cause was to be summed up; and then, to the surprise of all, except the bench and a few of the oldest of the bar, rising to address the jury; commencing in a low, feeble tone, and apparently sinking with infirmity, until by degrees his dim eye became like fire; his faint voice like the clear ringing of a bell; his eloquence as burning as if flowing from the lips of manhood's prime; his sarcasm withering; his logic strong, clear, fervid, and direct; no loitering; no circumlocution; no repetition: what he had to say he said once, and only once. Those who missed it then waited in vain for something of the same nature to explain it; it never came. His object was before him; and he hurried onward to it, sweeping every thing before him and carrying all with him. And when he had concluded, as he gathered his papers and left the court, the elder members of the bar would say among themselves: 'Old Holmes is himself again;' and the younger ones wondered who he was; and as they learned his name, remembered dimly of having heard it as that of one who had lived in by-gone days.
His office was not in the business part of the town; but in a quiet, shady street, which few frequented, rilled with huge trees, and so quiet and out of the way that it seemed like a church-yard. Thither Harson bent his steps; and it was not long before he found himself in his office.
It was a large, dim room, with high shelves filled with volumes and papers, reaching to the low ceiling. Long, dusty cobwebs hung trailing from the walls: the very spiders who had formed them, finding that they caught nothing, had abandoned them. The floor was thickly carpeted; and a few chairs were scattered about, with odd volumes lying upon them. Upon a table covered with a green cloth, were piles of loose papers, ends of old pens, torn scraps of paper, and straggling bits of red tape. Altogether, it was a sombre-looking place, so still and gloomy, and with such a chilly, forbidding air, that it seemed not unlike one of those mysterious chambers, which once abounded in antiquated castles, and tumbling-down old houses, with a ghost story hanging to their skirts; or which some ill-natured fairy had doomed to be shut up for a hundred years; and the little thin dried-up man who sat in the far corner of it with every faculty buried in the large volume on his knees, looked as though he might have dwelt there for the whole of that period. Had it been so it would have been the same to him; for in that dim room had he spent the most of his life, immersed in the musty volumes about him; now and then coming to the surface, to see that the world had not disappeared while he was busy; and then diving again to follow out some dark under-current, which was to lead him, God knows whither. What was the world to him? What cared he for its schemes and dreams and turmoil? The law was every thing to him; home, family, and friends. God help him! a poor lone man, with kindly feelings, and a warm, open heart, which might have made a fireside happy; but now without a soul to whom he might claim kindred. Many respected him; some pitied him, and a few, a very few, loved him. There he sat day after day, and often until the day ran into night, delving, and diving, and pondering, and thinking; a living machine, working like a slave for his clients; alike for rich and poor, the powerful and the friendless; beyond a bribe; too honest to fear or care for public opinion; strenuous in asserting the rights of others, and never enforcing his own, lest he might give pain to another. God help him! I say. He was not the man for this striving, struggling world; and perhaps it was well for him that in his murky pursuits he found that contentment which many others wanted. Yet he never freed his mind from its trammels, and looked abroad upon the wide world, with its myriads of throbbing hearts, but he found in it those whom he could love and could help. God help him, did I say? Rather, God help those who warp and twist the abilities, talents, and wealth which are showered upon them, to unholy purposes; who make the former the slaves to minister to deeds and passions at which human nature might blush; and the last but the stepping-stone to selfish aggrandizement, or the nucleus around which to gather greater store. Pity them, but not him; for although but a pale, thin, sickly being, with barely a hold upon life, with scarce the strength of a child, growing old, and withered, and feeble without knowing it; yet was he all-powerful, from the bright, bold spirit that animated him, and a soul stern in its own integrity, which shrank from nothing except evil; and blessed was he, far above all earthly blessings, with a heart ever warm, ever open, and in which God had infused a noble share of his own benevolence and love to mankind.
It is no wonder then that Harry Harson, when he stood in the presence of one in heart so akin to himself, paused and gazed upon him with a softened eye.
'Holmes, Dick Holmes,' said he, after a moment, 'are you at leisure?'
The old lawyer started, looked wistfully up, contracting his dim eyes so as to distinguish the features of the person who addressed him, and then doubling down the leaf of the book which he had been reading, rose and advanced hesitatingly until he recognized him.