“He’ll make a good something,” said the 103 Judge. “So far as anyone can judge the race from the start. But that isn’t why I have him in the office. You know how little I care in these days for such practice as I have left. I tell myself, of course, that it is my lingering interest in life as a general proposition which made me do it—I am curious to see before I die how this find of yours is coming out. That is what I tell myself. Probably in my very inside heart I know that it’s something else.”
“What else?” asked Mattie.
“This is one of the hidden things which this experiment is to discover,” said Judge Tiffany. “What made me notice him in the first place? What made you invite him to tea on the lawn? What has made you and me and Eleanor remember this chance meeting so long—let me see—how long was it?”
“A year ago last June,” said Mattie. One of her functions in their partnership was to hold small details always ready to the hand of the wide-thinking Judge.
“Will he go back on me—that’s the question,” pursued the Judge. “Success is probably at the end for him, but he has two ways of success open. He may go slowly and well, 104 or fast and ill. Road number one: he stays with my moth-eaten old practice, he refurbishes it, he earns a partnership; and so to conservative clients and, probably, to genuine success.” He hesitated.
“And the other road?” asked Mrs. Tiffany.
“Oh, that has many by-paths. He is trying one of them already. The stealthy, invaluable Attwood has told me about it. This Mr. Chester has made an investment in Richmond lots on information which he had no right to use. Never mind the details. If he follows that general direction, it will be a flashy success, a pretty worm-eaten crown of laurels.”
“Like Northrup’s,” broke in Mrs. Tiffany. That name always jarred on their ears. Northrup, ex-congressman, flowery Western orator, all Christian love on the surface, all guile beneath—he had taken to himself that success which Judge Tiffany might have had but for his hesitations of conscience. Theirs was a secret resentment. Judge Tiffany’s pride would never have let him show the world one glimmer of what he felt.
“Suppose he should follow that path—and take up with Northrup,” went on Judge Tiffany. “Mine honorable opponent has use for 105 such young men as our Mr. Chester will prove himself if he follows that path—magnetic young men to coax the rabble, young men not too nice on moral questions. Well, a boy isn’t born with honor, any more than he’s born with courage; he grows to it. And God only knows just when the boy strikes the divide which will turn his course one way or the other.”
“But Edward, you ought to warn him!”