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Updated: May 16, 2025
Payson Clifford, the client in question, was a commonplace young man who had been carefully prepared for the changes and chances of this mortal life first at a Fifth Avenue day school in New York City, afterwards at a select boarding school among the rock-ribbed hills of the Granite State, and finally at Cambridge, Massachusetts, in the cultured atmosphere of Harvard College, through whose precincts, in the dim, almost forgotten past, we are urged to believe that the good and the great trod musingly in their beautiful prime.
As he was near the Sweetwater, he resolved not to express the money to Payson, but to take it himself. He entered the courtyard of Allen Hacienda while the wedding was taking place within. None of his friends would have recognized him.
Now, though their ample parlors were gay with rich Brussels, crimson damask, and brocatelle, there was no genuine home feeling there. Mrs. Payson, the last time I saw her, wore a mousseline de lain, of subdued colors, a neat lace collar around her neck, fastened with a small diamond pin, the marriage gift of her father.
Payson, the bookkeeper, and Pliny that at least he was convinced of the boy's innocence. The balance of the day dragged heavily to every one. Business was almost at a standstill in the bank, for when the cashier was not in evidence some of them were bound to drift together and converse in whispers about the strange and terrible thing that had happened.
Payson had written, "when I add that the girl has been an inmate of Mr. Goldenheart's cottage ever since. If you can reconcile this disgraceful state of things, with Mr. Rufus Dingwell's assertion of his friend's fidelity to his marriage-engagement, I have no right, and no wish, to make any attempt to alter your opinion. But you have asked for my advice, and I must not shrink from giving it.
When he thought how Payson had drawn his pistol on trusting, unsuspecting Dick Lane in the garden, he was filled with the same pharisaic self-righteousness that inflated Bud when comparing himself with McKee.
Payson, smoking his third cigar, and taking now and then a dash of cognac, began to think better of his old dad. He really hadn't paid him quite the proper attention. He admitted it to Mr. Tutt with the first genuine tears in his eyes since he had left Cambridge; perhaps, if he had been more to him . But Mr.
Something unusual was stirring his brain; he sat thinking, thinking, uneasily shifting his position, and at length arose, and passing through a dark hall, entered the shop, and said, "Ah, Tom, is that you?" "Yes," answered the young man, diffidently; "Mr. Payson said you wished to see me." "Yes, walk in this way;" and Mr. Cowles returned to the home-room, followed by Tom.
I may find things changed there now. Do you know many people over there?" "Why yes nearly everybody " "Dominie Payson is he living?" "If he didn't die since yesterday. He was over here yesterday." "And Doctor Critchel you know him, I suppose? Is he alive?" "Why, help you he never intends to die."
I saw, in imagination, my old friend reduced from comfort and respectability, to a condition of extreme poverty, with all its sufferings and humiliations. While my mind was occupied with these unpleasant thoughts, my friend said, "You must dine with me to-morrow. Mrs. Payson will be glad to see you, and I want to have a long talk about old times. We dine at three."
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