Part 10

William began to puff up. "Now, look here, John, this is a serious discussion. Is it possible that there is nothing serious except in the law, in the names of your old clients? Do you keep everything serious shut up in your safe?"

The Judge's countenance changed, like the sudden turning down of a light, and he made a distressful gesture. "Don't, William; don't say that."

"Why, what did I say to shock you so?"

The Judge got up and slowly walked back into his office. William looked at Mrs. Elbridge. "Rachel, did I say anything?"

"He isn't well, William, and we never know what is going to displease him. But he means nothing by it, Mr. Bradley," she added. "Sometimes he begins to joke in its old way, but it has been long since we heard his laugh in its old heartiness. I wish you would talk to him, Mr. Bradley. I know he is not well, but he won't permit a doctor to come near him."

The preacher assured her that he would. He did not believe that there was any serious trouble; it was the strain of former years now claiming its debt of his constitution. "Nature does not forget," said he. "But nature may be humored. I have noticed a change in him, but I am inclined to think that he is gradually improving."

Howard was silent, though the minister looked at him at the conclusion of his speech as if expecting some sort of reply. "He doesn't forget about my dates, no matter how much of a change he has undergone," said William. "But, as to our discussion: I read some little in those days, and my mind led me into bogs and swamps--into doubts, if I may say so. It seemed to me that the whole plan was marked out and couldn't be changed. I remember having come across this startling question: 'If man can make his own destiny; if he can, by his own free will, arrest the accomplishment of the general plan, what becomes of God?' That struck me, sir, like a knockout blow."

"And yet," said Howard, "you say that the French have a slop which they call literature."

"What! I said so? Well, what if I did?"

"You have quoted Balzac."

"Have I? But, sir, do you appoint yourself to preside over my conscience?"

"I didn't say anything about your conscience, Uncle Billy."

"Oh, no, but you Uncle Billy me into a broil, that's what you do."

The preacher's mind had caught the quotation, relating as it did to the shop, and he smiled as he said: "I am afraid, Uncle William, that the young man has read too much for us. In an argument he is a porcupine with sharp quills."

"A pig with the bristles of impudence," said William, and smiled an apology to the mother.

"Nevertheless," remarked the preacher, returning to the subject, "I don't see how the eye of faith could have been dimmed by such a mote. Conscience--"

"Meaning education," Howard interrupted.

The minister bowed to Howard, but continued to address himself to William. "Conscience ought to have pointed out the good you could do. You could at least have gone to a foreign country--"

"Or off Van Buren Street," said Howard.

Bradley braced himself for a debate. Alone with Howard he might have said, "let it pass," but in the presence of a woman, a believer in his faith, a preacher must not shun a controversy. It would be an acknowledgment of the strength of the doubt and of the weakness of faith. So he braced himself against the wall of creed, and with polemic finger raised was about to proceed when he heard the front door open.

"The girls," said Mrs. Elbridge, glad enough to break in.

"So soon?" remarked Bradley, looking at his watch and meaning so late. Florence and Agnes came in, laughing. Bradley got up with a bow. "You here?" said Agnes, and then corrected herself by saying that she was pleased to see him there. "I never know how anything is going to sound," she continued, throwing her hat on a sofa. "It's all improvisation with me. I never saw as awkward a man in my life--" Bradley looked at her with such a start that she hastened to exclaim: "Oh, not you, Mr. Bradley--the young man who walked home with us. I couldn't for the life of me get it out of my head that he wasn't on stilts." She sat down on the sofa. Bradley made bold to go over and sit down beside her, taking up her hat, looking about for some place to put it and ending by holding it on his knees, awkwardly pressing them together. He felt that Howard was laughing at him; he knew that Agnes was. But she didn't offer to take the hat. Florence, however, relieved him, and then everyone laughed except William. The preacher had been placed in an awkward position, though anyone might have made a grace of it--anyone but a man whom custom almost forces to adopt solemnity as a badge of office; and William gave Howard credit for it all. In certain humors he would have charged the young man with a rainy day, a frost or a cold wind. He looked at him in his reproachful way and cleared his throat.

"What is it now, Uncle William?" Howard asked.

"Oh, don't ask me. You ought to know."

"But I don't. I haven't said a word or done a thing that you should give me the bad eye."

"Rachel," said the old man, "it seems to me that the more he reads the more slang he uses. The 'bad eye!' That belongs to the police court."

"Then it is not a quotation from Balzac."

"Never you mind about quotations. I have quoted before you were born--and I knew, sir, from what source. But I won't stay to be browbeaten. I will leave you."

"By the way," Howard called after him, "if you want a pipe of good tobacco step into my room. You'll find a fresh can on the table."

"I don't want any of your tobacco, sir; I don't want anything you've got."

Bradley might have thought that in this family the joke was overworked, that is, had he been prepared to think anything. But he was not. His mind was aglow from the light beside him, and his ideas, if at that moment he had any, were as gold fishes in a globe, swimming round and round.

Florence went to the piano. Howard stood beside her. Mrs. Elbridge went out. It was time, and she knew it. William appeared at the door. "I thought you said that your tobacco was on the table in your room. What right have you got--what cause have I ever given you to deceive me in that way?"

"You said you didn't want any of my tobacco."

"You said it was on the table. Of course I don't want it--I wouldn't have it."

"You just wanted to see where it was."

"I don't care anything about it, sir. I want you to understand that as you go along."

"All right, but the can of tobacco, I remember now, is in the closet on the shelf."

William went away, and the young man knew that in the morning his tobacco can would be empty. Florence played the air of a slow, old love song, and between the notes fell the soft words, her own and Howard's; they looked into each other's eyes, eyes so familiar to both, eyes they could no more remember first seeing than we can remember the first sky, the first star--love as old as recollection and as young as the moment.

There is one thing we can always say, and Bradley said it: "I shall miss you when you are gone."

"I'm not gone yet," Agnes replied.

"I hope you are not getting tired of us."

"Tired?" She raised her eyes and he looked into them, into the depth of their blue mystery. "No, I am having lots of fun."

"Fun! Is that all?"

"Isn't that enough? That's all I want."

"But life is not all fun."

"No?" She raised her eyes again.

"Life is serious," he said. "The greatest joy is serious; the greatest happiness comes to the heart when the heart is solemn."

"Oh, I don't think so. I cry when I'm serious."

"There is joy in a tear."

"Not in mine."

He did not hear the front door open. For him all the world had come in. He did not hear a step at the door. Bodney came in. Florence left off playing and turned about on the stool. Bradley arose and shook hands with him, said that he was glad to meet him, and lied. He would not at that moment have been glad to see the glory promised to the faithful. But he lied, as we all of us are compelled to lie, for to lie at times is the necessary martyrdom of the conscience. Bodney's face was bright and his laugh was gay. "You are as merry as a serenade," said Florence.

"As happy as a lark," he replied. The love-making was spoiled. Bradley said that it was time to take his leave. Bodney followed him to the door, and beneath the hall light handed him a bank note, apologizing for not having sooner returned the loan of ten dollars.

"But you have given me twenty," said Bradley.

"Have I? Then give the extra ten to the church."

*CHAPTER XVII.*

*LYING ON THE SIDEWALK.*

Bradley lived in Aldine Square. By the light of the first gas lamp he looked at his watch and found that it wanted but three minutes to midnight. At the corner of the street he waited for a cross-town car, but as none was within sight, he walked on, thinking little of the distance home, which was not great, for his mind was on Agnes. He had not decided that she would make a good wife, but he knew that he would ask her to marry him. He believed that his happiness depended upon her decision. This is a conclusion reached by nearly every man. His salary was not large, for his church was poor, but it was growing rich in numbers and that meant a popularity insuring larger pay. But why should he consider his income? They could live happily in Aldine Square. It was a charming place, and so romantic that one would scarcely expect to find it in Chicago. It might have been a part of Paris. It was come upon suddenly, its gate, with two great posts of stone, opening into the street. There was a plastered wall, and it looked as if it had been built for ages. Through the gate, which was always left open, the view was attractive--there were trees, shrubbery, flowers, a pool, a fountain and a carriage drive. It would charm Agnes.

The street was deserted, with the exception of a straggler here and there, turned out of a saloon. "Vice shutting its red eye," he mused, as one place closed its door. Looking ahead he saw a man leaning against a lamp post. As Bradley came up the man, stepping out, said: "Mister, will you please tell me what time it is?"

Bradley halted and took out his watch, and, holding it so as to catch the light, was about to tell him when the man snatched the watch, broke the chain and fled down an alley. The preacher shouted after him, ran a short distance down the alley, but, realizing that pursuit was folly, if not dangerous, returned to the street and continued his way homeward, the piece of chain dangling from his pocket. He thought of going to the nearest station to report the robbery, but his mind flew back to Agnes. How delicious it would be to have her all to himself, sitting by the fountain in the summer air. The perfume of the flowers would be sweeter, the falling of the water more musical. They would read together till the twilight came, read silly books, if she preferred them; and in the twilight they would read a book in which God had written--the book of their own hearts. And in cold weather they would sit in the warm light, at the window, and look out upon the little park, the shrubbery covered with snow, the statuary of winter. He would never seek to change the current of her mind. Nature had fashioned it a laughing rivulet and it should never be a sighing wave. With her in the congregation he could be more eloquent, touch more hearts through his love for her; he would be more akin to the young, for her love would be as a stream of youth constantly flowing into his life. Nature might have shown her power in the creation of man, but surely her glory in the creation of woman. He drew a contrast between Florence and Agnes. Florence was stronger, and had more dignity; but, of course, he believed that Agnes was more affectionate, and love was more beautiful than strength.

He turned into the street leading to the Aldine gate. And how quiet everything was. It was a love night, the leaves murmuring. But, what was that lying on the sidewalk in front of the gate? A woman. He stood looking down at her. Could she have been murdered. The light was not strong, but he could see that she was not ill dressed. She was lying on her right side. He touched her shoulder and she turned upon her back with a moan. He leaned over her and caught the fumes of liquor. But he got down upon his knees, raised her head and spoke to her.

"What are you doing here, poor girl?" he said. The light falling upon her face showed that she was young. She moaned and mumbled something. He asked her where she lived, but she could not tell him.

"I don't know what to do with you," he said.

"Don't leave me," she mumbled.

"I will be back in a moment," he said, placing her with her back against the wall. Then he ran to the fountain, wet his handkerchief, and returning with it dripping, bathed her face. It was hot and feverish. The cold handkerchief appeared somewhat to revive her.

"Don't you know where you live?"

"I can't--don't know the number."

"Nor the street?"

"Nothing."

Again he bathed her face, and taking his hat fanned her with it. "How did you come here?"

"They must have left me."

"Then you were with someone."

"Yes--three."

"Where had you been?"

"Wine room. Don't turn me over to the police. I won't go there again."

"Can't you remember now where you live?"

"It is a long ways from here--over on the West Side. I won't go there in this fix. I would rather die."

"Then I don't know what to do."

"Don't turn me over to the police," she moaned.

He stood with his hat in his hand, looking up and down the street. From the corner came the whack of the policeman's club against a lamp post. Not far away the fountain splashed its music. "Can you walk?" he asked.

"I'll try. But where are you going to take me?"

"To my home."

"No," she cried piteously. "I don't want a woman to see me this way."

"No woman is there to see you. Come on."

He led her along, supporting her with his arm. He did not look to see if there were any windows lighted about the square; he did not think of scandal; he thought of the poor thing heavy upon his arm, not as a preacher, but as a man. He carried her up the stone steps, unlocked the door and went into the hall, into the red light falling from the lamp. Up the stairs he led her, into a front room, striking a match as he entered, lighted the gas and eased her down upon a chair. She was deathly pale.

"Let me lie down," she said.

He pointed to the bed, stepped out into another room and drew the portieres. Then he lay down upon a sofa, not to think of what he had done, but of Agnes.

He was awakened by the housekeeper's tap upon the door. "Come in," he called, and as she entered he thought of the woman. The housekeeper was fat and full of scandal. She walked straightway to the portieres and drew them aside to enter the room, and started back with a gasp of surprise.

"My sister," said Bradley. "She came on a late train, and is going out early. Don't disturb her. She brought me bad news from home, and must go on further to see my other brother. She could not explain by telegraph. It involves the settling of an estate."

He was now standing beside the housekeeper and could see into the adjoining room. The girl, with a remnant of modesty, had drawn the covering over her.

Two days later, Sunday, at the close of services, a woman came forward, held out her hand to Bradley and said: "I want you to pray for me."

Her face was pale and there was true repentance in her eyes. "You are my sister," Bradley replied, and this time he did not believe that he had told a falsehood. She went out, with tears on her cheeks; and a lady who had come up to compliment the preacher on his sermon, asked:

"Who is that girl?"

"I don't know her name."

"She met me just as I was coming in," said the lady, "and was anxious as to whether or not this was your church. She was evidently not looking for denominations."

She was not. She was looking for something nearer God--a man.

*CHAPTER XVIII.*

*MADE HIS PROPOSITION.*

The farmers have a saying to illustrate restlessness: "Like a hen on a hot griddle." And Bodney thought of it the next day, as he sat about the office waiting for the noon hour, for the game did not start before then. He tried to read, but the words were as the echo of a pot that had been played. He attempted to write, but called it a misdeal. How swift was life, viewed from the window, and yet how slow time was, limping, halting, standing still, boulders between minutes and mountains between hours. Surely his watch was slow. No, for a bell confirmed it in its record of the forenoon's slothfulness. He thought of Goyle, and wondered why he did not come to make his proposition, if it were so important. He went out to walk in the cool air blowing from the lake, and the Wexton stairs arose before him. He rang the bell, and, standing there waiting for the grim face of the porter, reminded himself of an old horse at a stable door. Inside they were cleaning up, sweeping, dusting, getting ready for another day and another night. From off in a bedroom came the snoring of a man who had gone to sleep, drunk and broke; but the porter would bid him a pleasant good-morning and would give him a drink from a bottle kept in ice all night. Bodney sat down at a window and took up a newspaper and glanced at the report of a committee appointed to investigate gambling in Chicago. Numerous witnesses had been summoned, some of them connected with the poker clubs; and in a vague way they admitted under oath that they might have seen men playing cards for money, but could not recall exactly where. "I am looking for a fool," said the Legislature. "What do you want with him?" the Governor asked. "I want to put him on an investigative committee," the Legislature replied. "For the city?" the Governor inquired. "Yes," answered the Legislature. "Then," said the Governor, "take the first countryman you come to."

Men with borrowed money burning in their pockets began to arrive, and each one was asked by an earlier comer if he wanted to play poker, and though he had shouldered his way through the crowd to get there, fearing that he might not find a vacant seat, he answered in a hesitating way, "Well, I don't know; haven't got much time--might play a little while." It was a part of the hypocrisy of the game, recognized by all and practiced by all.

The noon meal was munched and the game began. Opposite Bodney sat a man whose liquor lapped over from the previous day. One eye was smaller than the other, and on one cheek, red and flaming, was a white scar. He drew to everything, won from the start and was therefore offensive. Bodney opened a pot on a pair of aces. All passed but the man with the white scar, who said that he would stay. "You are a pretty good fellow," he remarked to Bodney. "I'll help you along." Bodney drew three cards and caught his third ace. The white scar drew two cards. Bodney, to lead him on, bet a chip.

"Well," said the scar, "I had a pair of sixes and an ace here. I'll go down now and see if I helped, and I won't bet you unless I have. Well, I'll have to raise you three dollars."

"Raise you three," said Bodney.

"You must have helped. Still, we never know. Ain't that so, Jim?"

Jim said that it was so, and the scar, as if pleased and reassured in thus finding his view confirmed, raised Bodney.

It was wrong to take a drunken man's money; it was robbery, but it was poker, and Bodney raised him.

"Well, you play two pairs pretty hard, and I don't believe you can beat three sixes. Raise you." Then Bodney began to study. "I'll call you," he said.

"I drew to three little diamonds," said the fellow, "and caught a flush." He spread his hand. Bodney swore. "I never played with a drunken man that he didn't beat me."

The fellow looked up at him as he raked in the pot. "Have to do it. My pew rent's due. Ain't that right, Jim?"

"That's right," said Jim.

Bad ran into worse and rounded up in a heap of disaster. At three o'clock, just as the game was getting good, as someone remarked, Bodney went out, feeling in his pockets. This becomes a habit with the poker fool. He continues to search himself long after he has raked up the lint from the bottom of his pockets. In the street the air was stagnant and the sunshine was a mockery. At several places he tried to borrow money, but failed; his former accommodater, the druggist, told him that he had a note to meet and could not spare it. He was sorry, he said. Bodney went out, muttering that he was a liar. He went to the office and found the door locked. Howard was not there, and he could hide himself, the peacock whose tail feathers had been pulled out. But before going into the office he thought of the old doctor across the hall, and hesitated. Perhaps he had money, and, having ruined his mind, might be fool enough to lend it. The doctor was pleased to see him. He was astonished to find Bodney so much interested in his affairs, and he wondered if a spirit of reformation had come upon the youth of the land. Bodney said that of late he had begun to hear much of the old man's skill as a physician. The old man turned a whitish smile upon him and listened like a gray rat, bristles resembling feelers sticking out on his lip. And after a time Bodney asked if he would be so kind as to lend ten dollars till the following morning? He was sorry, but could not. That part of the mind which takes account of money is the last to suffer from disease.

Bodney went into the office to wait for something, he did not know what. He thought of Bradley, and wondered if he could find him. Just then he discovered the something he had been waiting for. Goyle came in.

"Halloa, old man," said Goyle. "I went up to the club just now to look for you and they told me that you had gone down stairs."

"Down stairs broke," Bodney replied.

"That's all right," said Goyle.

"It's not all right. I'm broke, I tell you; and a man that's broke is all wrong."

"He may think so. I'm glad you are broke." He put his hand on a table, leaned forward, and gazed into Bodney's eyes.

"Glad," said Bodney, blinking.

"Yes, glad. It teaches you the need of money. You are forced to shove back your chair, to give your place to a brute standing behind you. You see the deal go on. You are frozen out, but no one cares. That game is life, the affairs of man epitomized; you put in your last chip, you lose, and you have failed in business. A fellow who hasn't one-tenth the education has succeeded. He stacks up the chips that you have bought, and for consolation he says that chips have no home. Am I right?"

"Yes, you are. But I want to get back into the affairs of man. Let me have ten dollars."

"Two weeks from now I can give you ten thousand. Listen to me. Wait a moment." He closed the door, came back, drew a chair in front of Bodney, sat down and leaned forward. "Now, I will submit my proposition."

"I don't know that I can entertain any proposition. I am in too desperate a fix to go into any sort of an enterprise. My blood is full of fever. I've got this gambling mania on me and I'm tempted to cut my throat. One evening you took me to a supper that was not to cost anything. It has cost everything, all the money I had, my honor, my future, my--"