Part 11

"That's rot, George. I introduced you to a supper that gave you experience--real knowledge of the world. You have met men without their dress-coats--you know man as he is and not as he says he is. You were blind and I opened your eyes to the fact that money is not the reward of the honest and industrious. It is the agent of hell, and must be won by means of the devil. You ought to have been a rich man. If there'd been any foresight you would have been. And whose fault was it that the opportunity slipped? Not yours. Now to my plan. Look at me. Child stealing."

"What!" Bodney exclaimed.

"I have laid my wires. We will steal children and gather in thousands of dollars in reward for restoring them to their parents. Hold on. Look at me. We will steal from the rich, for that is always legitimate. We will have our agents stationed here and there--we will--"

"Infamous scoundrel, I could cut your throat. I wish to God I had."

"Sit down and listen to me."

"I won't sit down. I will stand and look you in the eye, you scoundrel. Don't put your hand on me. Stand back, or I'll knock you down."

Goyle sneered at him. "You can't hit me. I am your master. Now, listen to me. I am going over into Michigan to establish a--post, I'll call it. And when I come back, you will join me. I present a plan by which you can get out of all your difficulties, and you turn on me. Is that the way to treat a benefactor? I have settled upon our first enterprise. Every day a nurse and child are at a certain place in Lincoln Park. The father is dead and the mother is rich. The child, I have found from the nurse, is a boy. I am engaged to marry her. While I am walking with her you steal--"

Bodney struck him in the mouth--struck him with all the force of disgrace and despair. He fell and the blood flowed from his mouth. He did not get up; he lay with his head back, and Bodney thought that he saw death in his half-closed eyes. He touched him with his foot and spoke to him, but he did not move. Someone knocked at the door, and without a tremor Bodney opened it, expecting to find Howard. The old doctor stood in the hall. "I am sorry I refused to let you have the money," he said. "And now, if you assure me that--"

"I am obliged to you," Bodney broke in, "but I do not need it. I wanted to gamble with it, but I have quit gambling. I have overthrown the evil. Here," he added, taking the old man's arm and leading him into the room. "There it lies bleeding," he said, pointing. "Perhaps it needs your assistance. I must bid you good day." He walked out, leaving the old man alone with Goyle.

"What are you smiling at?" asked an acquaintance who met him in the street.

"Was I smiling?"

"Yes, like a four-time winner."

"I am at least a one-time winner," Bodney replied. He stepped into a drug store to get a cold drink, his friend's place, he noticed after entering. The druggist came forward and thus spoke to him: "I was sorry after you went out that I didn't let you have ten dollars. I found that I had more than enough to meet the note. I can let you have it now."

Bodney shook his head. "No, I thank you--I don't care for it. I have quit borrowing."

"I hope you don't feel offended."

"Not at all. I am grateful to you for not lending it to me."

Late in the evening he went back to the office. No one was there, but soon the negro janitor came in and pointed to a damp spot on the floor. "I have washed up the blood where the man fainted and fell," he said. "The doctor brought him to all right, and there's a note on the table he left for you."

Bodney opened the note and read: "I leave for Michigan, and will be back within a few days. I don't blame you as much as I do myself. I permitted you to break away from me, but you will come back and at last be thankful. Goyle."

*CHAPTER XIX.*

*THE GIRL AGAIN.*

Bodney's "breaking away" from Goyle had taken place on the day following the night when Bradley had been robbed of his watch, and two days before the girl appeared in church to ask for prayers. On the Monday following, about noon, she appeared again, this time at Bradley's lodgings. The housekeeper answered her ring at the bell. "Ah," she said, "come in. You are Mr. Bradley's sister, I believe. I didn't see you but a moment, but I think I recognize you."

"Is Mr. Bradley here?" the girl asked.

"No, your brother has gone out. I think you can find him over at Judge Elbridge's. I don't know exactly where it is, but some place on Indiana Avenue. Anyone can tell you. I hope you haven't any more bad news for him."

The girl was shrewd and did not betray herself. "No," she said, and went away. Bradley was in the Judge's drawing room with Agnes when a servant came in to tell him that a young woman at the door wished to see him.

"Oh, a young woman," cried Agnes, pretending to pout. "Some girl you have been talking sweet to, I warrant." He had risen to go out, but he halted to lean over and say to her, "I have never talked sweet, as you term it, to anyone--except--"

"This one," Agnes broke in. "Oh, go on. Don't let me detain you."

"Probably someone connected with the church--"

"Of course, they always are. Go on, please."

"I will tell you all about her when I come back."

"Oh, don't mind me. Here's Florence. She knows I don't care. Do please go on."

Bradley went out, and not with a light heart, for his love had now entered into the stew and fretful state. The girl stood in the hall, and in the dim light he did not recognize her till she spoke. She handed him a small package.

"What is this?" he asked.

"It is yours."

"My what?"

"Your watch."

It was some time before he could speak. All ideas were as dust blown about his mind. "You don't mean to say that--you couldn't have taken it--you--"

"Let me go where I can talk to you--outside."

He went out with her and together they walked along the street. Looking back, he saw Agnes at the window, and he waved his hand at her. She made a face at him, he thought. "Now, what is it you have to say?"

"You know a man named Goyle?" she said.

"Yes, I have met him at the Judge's house."

He waited for her to proceed. "I was with him and two others the night you found me. They left me on the sidewalk because I could not go further, I have been told. Goyle went away alone and snatched your watch."

"But, my gracious, how do you know? Did he tell you?"

"For some time he has been coming to see me. He was the first man I ever went with to--a place where I should not have gone. I blush to own it, but I was fascinated by him. He asked me to marry him, and I consented. The last time he came after that night was yesterday evening. But you had taught me to despise him. I could not drive him away, however, so I sat in the room with him. His mouth had been hurt--two of his teeth were gone. He said he had fallen off a car. He said also that as soon as he got a little better he was going to Michigan. He took out his watch, one that I had never seen him have before, and I noticed that it had a broken chain. Then I remembered seeing a broken chain hanging from your pocket; and the next morning before I left your house I thought I heard you tell someone that your watch had been snatched from you. I asked him to let me see the watch, and in it I found your name. I did not return it to him--I jumped up and ran out. He called after me, and tried to catch me, but I slammed a door in his face and locked it. Then, my mother, who never did like him, ordered him out of the house."

"What is your name?"

"Margaret Frayer."

"Then, Margaret Frayer, I am sorry you brought me the watch."

"Sorry?"

"I did not wish a reward for what I had done for you."

"Oh, that--the watch is not your reward. You have saved a soul. In my heart I believe that I have found peace. I went to sleep with a prayer on my lips, and I awoke with such a joy in my heart that I was frightened. I called mother and she came running into the room, and there must have been a spirit there, for before I said a word, and before mother had seen me, for it was dark, she cried out that I was saved. She had always been worried over me; she feared that my soul was lost. And she put her arms about me and sobbed in her happiness. That is your reward, Mr. Bradley."

"Come back to the house with me," he said.

He led her into the drawing room and introduced her to Florence and Agnes. "I wish to present a young woman whom God has smiled upon," he said, and they looked at him in astonishment. He told them that he had found her wandering and had led her home. Florence took her hand.

"I may not be worthy, yet," said Margaret Frayer. "You don't know me well enough to take my hand."

"I know that you must have suffered, and that is enough," Florence replied. The preacher looked at Agnes. He wondered why she did not come oftener to his church. He wondered what she would say to the young woman.

"You are my sister," said Agnes, as if inspired, and Bradley clasped his hands and pressed them to his bosom. His heart was full.

Margaret Frayer did not remain long. "You may meet me again," she said.

"She is to become a member of my church," Bradley spoke up.

"My heart and my prayers will be with your church, Mr. Bradley," she said; "I shall remember you and be grateful to you as long as I live, but my soul tells me to go with the Salvation Army, among girls, and persuade them to work in the street when they have the time. It is not goodness alone that saves us, Mr. Bradley; goodness may be selfish--it is saving others that saves us. You know how that is. You have saved others."

"You are right," he said. "Go with the army; you can do more there."

"And, do you say so?" Florence cried. "I thought you too orthodox for that."

"Not too orthodox for the truth," he replied, bowing.

"Then," said Florence, "I think more of you than I did. I thought it was your ambition to build up a church, but I find that you have forgotten your creed to save a woman. I am coming oftener to hear you preach."

During this time Margaret Frayer stood near the door, waiting, it seemed, for an opportunity to go. The preacher looked at her, and mused upon the change that had come over her face since he had first seen her, only a short time, but a great change. The Salvation Army has a countenance and a complexion peculiarly its own, serene and pale; and so quick, it seems, is the transformation that the coarse-featured, evil-eyed woman of today may, to-morrow, have a striking refinement. "I hope you will come frequently to my church," said Bradley, taking her hand.

"Whenever I am selfish," she replied.

"You young ladies have done yourselves credit," said Bradley, when Margaret Frayer had taken her leave.

"Why so?" said Agnes. "Because we treated her kindly? Did you take us for heathens?"

"Oh, no, but women--women are so slow to forgive."

"Forgive? Why, what has she done? She simply wanted religion, and you have helped her. Oh, she might have done wrong, I don't know. But women are more forgiving now that they have taken more of man's privileges. They may become quite generous after a while." With Agnes it was innocence; with Florence it was knowledge. She divined the history of the girl; and in giving her hand felt that it was to one who had gone astray, who had suffered, and who had turned back. The Judge came in, to the disappointment of the preacher, who feared that, soon to be followed by William, the old jurist would begin anew to stir up the old straw of family humor. But William did not come, and the Judge was in no mood for joking. He had been brooding, and his brow was dark. "Florence," he said, after exchanging a few words with Bradley, "I wish you would walk out with me." She said nothing, but went out and came back with her hat. They walked in the shade of the elms, and he remarked upon different objects, but she said nothing.

"Why don't you talk, Florence?"

"Because I haven't anything to say."

"You mean that you have nothing to say to me."

"I mean that it is useless to say anything to you. Shall I say something? I will. You are an unnatural father."

"No, I have an unnatural son."

"That is not true, Judge. Anyone to see him, to hear him talk, to know him, would feel that he could not commit such a crime. Why, sometimes when I am alone it almost exasperates me to think about it; and to realize that I am in a conspiracy against him. It is cruel, and at times I fancy that I am almost as unnatural as you are."

"To be bound by an oath? Is that unnatural? Is it unnatural to have honor? I told you in the first place to protect you; I bound you by oath to protect her, his mother. That is simple enough."

"But you don't know how near I have come to the violation of that oath. More than once I have had it in my heart to tell him--but I couldn't," she broke off. "I couldn't. But he is going away, and I will write it to him, every detail of it; and I know that he will forgive me."

"You make me the criminal when I am the injured. Let us go back."

*CHAPTER XX.*

*THE PREACHER CONFESSES.*

Bradley had argued with himself that at the proper time it would be simple enough to tell the girl that he loved her, and no doubt he was right, but the time did not come. He sat beside her on the sofa, when the Judge and Florence had quitted the room, and he looked into her eyes, and the proper words arose like a graceful flight of birds, rich in bright feathers, but they scattered and flew away. He could have delivered an oration upon beauty and love, and he did; but he feared to surprise her by telling her that he loved her. He did not dream that she had discovered it coming before he felt it. It was not possible for so innocent a creature to know so much. He was a large man, and large men may have sentiment, but sometimes they lack sentimental nerve.

"You don't believe now that I talked what you termed sweet to that poor girl, do you?"

"Oh, I don't know. But I don't see why she should look at you that way even if you did--did lead her. It must have looked nice, you going along leading her. What do you suppose people thought?"

"No one--one saw me lead her," Bradley stammered.

"Oh, then it was in the dark. Led her in the dark."

"She didn't mean that I really took her by the hand and led her. I led her spiritually."

"Is that all? Where did you find her--spiritually?"

"Going--shall I say?"

"Why, of course."

"Going to the devil."

"Oh, and did she say so, or could you see for yourself?"

"I could see. Agnes--Miss Agnes, if I were not afraid of lowering myself in your esteem, I would tell you something."

"Don't tell me anything dreadful," she cried, stopping her ears. "I know it must be something awful."

He waited for her to unstop her ears, which she did very soon, and then he spoke, but on another subject. She replied listlessly, leaning her head on the back of the sofa. He told her about his church and she yawned. He had been delighted to see her in the congregation, and she yawned again. "I thought you were going to tell me about that woman," she said.

"But you stopped your ears."

"And don't you know that when a woman stops her ears it's the time when she wants to hear?"

"I didn't know that."

"You didn't? Then you needn't tell me anything."

"Yes, I believe I ought to tell you--only you."

"Why only me?" she asked, her eyes half closed.

"I don't know, but--"

"Then, why did you say only me?"

"Because I--I think more of you than of anyone else."

"Oh, if you think it's your duty you'd better tell me."

He told her, and she sat up straight, looking at him; she got up and walked slowly to the opposite side of the room, he gazing at her. He reproached himself for telling her. She was young, lived apart from the great crowd, and could not understand. He could not see her face, for she stood with her back toward him, but displeasure has many countenances, and he could see that his story had offended her. Her head was slightly bowed, and she was no doubt weeping; he heard her sob. Then she had loved him, and her love was dying. But he did not dare to go to her, to the death of the love he had murdered. Suddenly she turned about. Her face was radiant, and she was laughing. He stared at her in amazement.

"It is exactly what you ought to have done," she said.

"And I am not lowered in your estimation?"

"For being a truer man than any man I have ever known? Oh, no."

Yes, she had turned round, laughing, but there were tear stains on her checks. He did not know that she had passed through a struggle of doubt to reach laughter. Surely she was a strange creature, worthy of being loved and capable of loving; but he did not tell her that he loved her. The words were warm in his heart, but felt cool upon his lips, and he did not utter them. He talked in a round-about way, in an emotional skirmish, he afterward said to himself, and then took his leave, as the Judge and Florence had returned. Just outside he met Bodney coming in. "Oh, by the way, the very man I want to see, Mr. Bodney. I want a talk with you."

Bodney thought that the preacher was going to thank him again for the money sent to the church, to tell him how much good it had done. "I will walk along with you," he said.

"This is a peculiar world," remarked the preacher, as they strode along, side by side.

"You might almost say a damnable world," Bodney replied.

"No, not quite so bad as that." They walked on in silence, Bodney wondering what the preacher wanted to talk about, the preacher wondering how he could best get at what he intended to say. "You are well acquainted with Mr. Goyle," said Bradley.

"Why do you speak of him? Why didn't you say I am well acquainted with the devil?"

"I suppose I might as well. Do you believe him desperate?"

"In his milder moods, yes; at other times he goes beyond that--he is inhuman."

"Ah. Do you believe that he would snatch a man's watch?"

"He would snatch a woman's child. He is a beast. But you have something to tell me. What is it?"

"I will, but as I do not wish to bring someone else into the glare of scandal, you must keep it to yourself. The other night, as I was going home, a man standing under a lamppost asked me the time. I took out my watch and he snatched it and fled down an alley. I didn't notice his face, or at least I could not see it very well, and I did not recognize him, but I have recovered the watch and have been told that it was Goyle who snatched it. And you do not suppose that there is any question as to his being bold enough to do such a thing."

"Mr. Bradley, that man would do anything; he is a footpad or a sorcerer, just as the humor takes him. Now, I will tell you something. He made himself my master, so completely that at times I could not resist him. But the other day he made me an infamous proposition and I struck him in the mouth and knocked him senseless upon the floor. Blood ran out of his mouth, and it was black--black, I will swear. I left him lying there, and when I returned he was gone, but he had written a note to me, a note in which there was not a word of reproach or resentment. He said he was going away and would see me upon his return. That note frightened me, and I have been scared ever since, dreading to meet him, for I feel that he has some sort of reserve power to throw over me. I would go away, but the thought that he knows all my movements is constantly haunting me. You may smile at this and say that I ought to be stronger, that it is superstition, and that we are not living in a superstitious age, but I tell you that in his presence I feel a weakness come over me to such a degree that when I am with him I have only one strength--a passion for gambling. I have let him ruin me, soul and body; I--"

"I will pray for you," said Bradley.

"You might as well pray for rain, and nothing could be more foolish than that."

"What, you doubt the spirit of God?"

"I believe in the spirit of the devil. But this is jugglery. If he had left me a note full of resentment, or had even left no word at all, I should have felt that I had conquered him; but, as it is, I know that I am his slave."

"My dear young man," said the preacher, "you ascribe to him supernatural powers; you have permitted him to take you back into the middle ages. Such a thing is absurd, in this great, progressive city. See," he added, pointing at an electric car rushing by. "There goes the nineteenth century, and yonder," he broke off, waving his hand at a cart shoved by an Italian, "is the sixteenth century. You have let the Italian put you into his wretched cart. Get out--get on the electric car."

"Your illustration is all right, Mr. Bradley; but he has me in his cart bound hand and foot. But we have both said enough, and what we have said is not to be repeated to others. I'll turn back here."

After knocking Goyle down, Bodney had fully determined to make a confession to Howard and the Judge, but upon finding the note his will resolved itself into fear and indecision. He felt, however, that the gambling germ was dead--"germ," he muttered to himself. "Giant!" he cried aloud. It must be, though, that he would gradually gain strength, and the time for the confession was surely not far off. But he would bring disgrace upon himself and be driven out of the house. He could not bear the thought of seeing hatred in the eye of the Judge. The old man was unforgiving; had not forgiven his son, and would surely send Bodney to the penitentiary. "I can't tell him yet," he mused. "I must wait for strength. That scoundrel is thinking of me at this moment, and I know it." In the night he awoke with a feeling that Goyle was in the room, and he sprang out of bed and lighted the gas. Thus it was for three nights, and on the third morning came a letter from Goyle, not a letter, but an envelope directed by his hand, and in it was a newspaper cutting, set in the large type of the village press. "Last night, at Col. Radley's, the guests were entertained in a most novel, not to say startling, manner, by Prof. Goyle, of Chicago, who gave several feats of mind-reading. Miss Sarah Mayhew, daughter of our leading merchant, stuck a pin in the door-facing as high as she could reach, while the Professor was out of the room, and then hid the pin under the carpet. The Professor was brought in blindfolded, amid the silence which the Colonel had enjoined. He took Miss Mayhew by the hand, fell into deep thought for a few moments and then went straightway and took the pin from under the carpet, and then, marvelous to relate, ran across the room and leaping off the floor stuck the pin in the exact hole which it had occupied at the hands of the handsome Miss Mayhew. George Halbin, one of our leading lawyers, said that the feat would have seemed impossible to even a man with both eyes open. The Professor will appear at the opera house tomorrow night, and our citizens who appreciate a good thing when they see it should turn out."

"What have you got there?" William asked, standing in Bodney's door.

"Just a clipping from a newspaper telling of Goyle's wonderful mind-reading."

"Let me see it."

William read the paragraph and handed it back. "I don't believe a word of it," he said. "Those fellows will write anything if they are paid for it. It's all a lie."

"It's all true," said Bodney.