Part 12

"What, have you turned spiritualist? Is the whole family going to pieces? Howard has ruined himself with French books and John is so snappish that no one can speak to him. Is that the sort of home I've found? Give me that cigar sticking out of your packet. You don't need it. Thank you. A man who believes the stuff you do don't know whether he's smoking or not. Is that John, roaring at Howard? I want to tell you that there's something wrong here. What do you keep holding that thing for? Why, you shake like a sifter at a sawmill. You are all going crazy."

*CHAPTER XXI.*

*UP THE STAIRS AND DOWN AGAIN.*

When Bodney went into the hall he found the Judge walking up and down, waiting for breakfast. His brow was troubled and dark, for Howard had just announced his determination to leave on the following day. He had acknowledged to himself that there was nothing left to hope for, and yet he had continued to hope that it all might be, as Florence believed, a vision, a nightmare, to be relieved by a sudden start. He knew that it was unreasonable thus to hope, but hope was born before reason, and will exist after reason has died of old age. As Bodney approached the old man stood with his hand pressed against his forehead. Bodney's heart smote him, but his fear was stronger than his remorse. The piece of paper, still in his hand, seemed to burn his palm, as poker money had burned in his pocket; and he felt that he was but a pin hidden under a carpet and that Goyle could find him and thrust him back into obedience. The Judge noticed the grip with which he held the slip of paper. "What have you there, George?" he asked.

"A--a--thing cut out of a newspaper." He opened his hand and the Judge looked at the slip of paper.

"But why did you grip it that way?" He took the cutting, smoothed it out, and, putting on his glasses, read it. "Ah," he said, handing it back, "that fellow. I have seen him in my sleep--last night. Tell him not to come here again."

"It has been some time since he was here."

"Don't apologize for him. Tell him that he must not enter this house again."

William came out and saw the Judge hand the cutting to Bodney. "Is it possible, John, that you believe in that nonsense, too?"

"I don't believe in anything," said the Judge.

"That's putting it rather strong," replied William. "That is to say, that when I tell you I elected Governors and Senators, you don't believe it." Bodney passed on, leaving the brothers walking up and down the hall, shoulder to shoulder.

"Did I say that I didn't believe you? What difference does it make anyway?"

"What difference does any man's record make? If a man isn't proud of his record, what should he be proud of? You are proud of your decisions--they go to make up your record. I elected Governors, and--"

"Why didn't you elect yourself?"

"That's a nice way to come back at a man--your own brother. Haven't you heard me say that there is something higher than a desire for office? Hah, haven't you heard me say that?"

"Yes, there is something higher--the roof of the board of trade."

"John, that is an unfair thrust at my speculations. But, sir, at one time I could have closed out for millions. Do you understand, for millions."

"Why didn't you?"

"Now, just listen to that. Reproaches me for not being a money grabber, for not joining the robbers to crush the weaklings. I have suffered a good deal at your hands lately, but I didn't expect that stab. It wounds me here." He halted, and placed his hand on his breast. But he went in to breakfast and ate with the appetite of a man who, if wounded, must have marvelously recovered; he joked with Agnes about the preacher; he told her that it would be her duty to take care of his numerous slippers, presented by women. "And when you have a pound party at your house I will contribute a--"

"Senator," said Howard.

"Oh, so you have broken out, have you? I thought you were too deep in the study of French literature to pay any attention to such trifles. And you have got on a reddish necktie. You'll be an anarchist the first thing you know."

"He is going away, William," said Mrs. Elbridge, and the Judge did not look up. The sadness of her voice stirred William to repentance. "Going away? I don't see how we can get along without him. He and I joke, but we understand each other, don't we, Howard?"

"Perfectly, Uncle William; and when I open my ranch out West, you may look on it as your home."

"Thank you, my boy; but I don't care to go out there again. I was once a power there, but the country is now overrun with a lesser breed, and I am afraid that I might not get along with them. I want men, such as there used to be. Man will soon be a thing of the past. The scorcher is running over him--and I want to say right here, that if one of those fellows ever runs over me, he'll get a bullet just about the size of a--a--about the size of that." He held up his thumb and measured off the missile intended for the scorcher. "You hear what I say. Why, confound 'em, if they see a man, a real man, they bow their necks and make at him, but if one of them ever runs into me, the coroner will have a job."

Howard and Bodney went down town together and opened the office, as usual, for clients who did not come, and who, if they had come, would have shaken their heads and gone away.

"Howard," said Bodney, "I told you that I was financially ruined."

"Yes, I remember, but afterward you said that everything was all right, that your fit had passed. Has it come again?"

"It didn't go away. A sort of drunkenness made it appear so. The fact is, I am in need of ten dollars, to pay a man I owe. He keeps harassing me."

"I need every cent I've got, old man, but here's ten."

Bodney took the bank note and went out. The poker microbe was not so easily to be exterminated. It had suggested to Bodney that the only way to replace the money taken from the Judge's safe was to play poker. And, why not play? He might win--he had won once, and what the cards had done they would do again. He remembered the courtesies that had been shown him at the club, the congratulation of the man at the desk when he won and the sympathy when he lost. "Couldn't make 'em stick, eh? When a man gets the hands beaten you do, he's got to lose his money. There's nothing to it. But you'll get 'em yet--you play as good game as any of them." A man of sense could see that it was a losing game from the start, no matter how honestly conducted. And Bodney, going to the club before business put on its cheerful countenance, had seen them counting the swallowings of the ever hungry box, the rake-off, the unsatisfied maw. A fairly active game would average for the house at least eight dollars an hour, so that in the end every man must be a loser. He knew all this as the others knew it, but the microbe squirmed and made him itch.

He walked toward the Wexton Club, not in a rush, for he was still fighting. Speculation urged him to play one more time, and to realize during the game that it was the last. The hunger for play was surely dying; then, why kill it? why not let it die of its own accord? Then came the memory of nights of distress, the nervous sweat of anxiety in the street, scanning faces, looking for money. He turned aside, went into a hotel and sat down. Two men were talking of a defaulter. "Yes, sir," said one of them, "everybody had confidence in him--the firm trusted him implicitly; but he embezzled and must go up for it." He mentioned the embezzler's name, and Bodney recognized it as that of a gentlemanly young fellow well known at the Wexton. He had come under an assumed name, but had thrown off this weak disguise, to indorse a check. So the players, who gossip among themselves, knew his real name, but addressed him as Jones. Bodney continued to listen. "I understand," said one of the men, "that the place where he went is a regular robbers' den." Bodney knew better than this; he knew that in the fairness, the courtesy, the good nature of the place lay its greatest danger. Men swore, it was true; cursed their luck and called upon a neighbor to testify to the fact that he had never seen such hands beaten; but for the most part, the atmosphere was genial, the talk bright and with a crispness rarely found in society. He resented this misrepresentation, and was even on the point of speaking when the men walked off. Soon afterward he went out, though not in the direction of the club; he circled round and round, like a deer, charmed by a snake; but after a time he saw the stairway, dusty and grim, rise before him. In the hall above, just as he was about to ring the bell, he thought of his short resources, only one ten dollar note, and he took out the crumpled paper and held it in his hand for a moment and looked at it, not to find the ten dollars, but the newspaper cutting. He started as if stung, stepped back and stood with his hand resting on the balustrade. The door opened and a man came out. Bodney spoke to him, and he halted. It was the offensive fellow with the white scar.

"How did you come out?"

The man opened both hands and raised them. He was not drunk now. He was sober and desperate. "They have ruined me," he said; "ruined me, and I don't know what in the name of God to do. I'll never play again as long as I live--I'd swear it on all the bibles in the world. Are you going to play?"

"I was thinking about it."

"I could have quit big winner. Say, have you got enough to stake me?" His eyes brightened, but the light went out when Bodney shook his head. "I've got just ten dollars."

"Then you won't last as long as a feather in hell." He went down the stairs, and Bodney continued to stand there, fighting against himself, with the newspaper cutting still in his hand. Suddenly, with his teeth set and both hands clenched, he ran down the stairs. At the door opening out upon the street he met the master of the game. "Won't you come back and eat with us?"

"No, I am in a hurry."

The master of the game was astonished. The idea of a poker player being in a hurry to get away from the game was almost new to him--and it was new to Bodney. But he hastened on, not daring to look back lest he might find some new temptation beckoning him to return. Passing beyond the circle wherein the lodestone seemed to draw the hardest, he felt, upon looking back, that he had escaped and was beyond pursuit. It was now eleven o'clock, and the victory must have been won at about ten minutes to eleven. He had cause to remember this afterward, on the following day, when he believed that the cause of this sudden strength had been revealed to him.

Howard was in the office when Bodney returned. "Well, did you pay your persistent creditor?"

"There was none. Here is your money; I don't need it now."

"But you will, so you'd better keep it."

"That's a fact, and I don't know how soon."

"But you say there was none."

"None. I'll explain sometime, but I can't now."

Howard did not pursue the subject further, for his mind was on his own affairs. He had settled upon taking his departure the next morning, and now he looked about the old room with a feeling of sadness. He had consulted another physician who knew his father well, and had been informed that the old man might improve rapidly in the absence of his son. This made the young man wince, but he had told the doctor that his father seemed to have an especial antipathy to him. "It is one of the freaks peculiar to diseased minds to turn upon one who has been nearest," said the physician. Howard had repeated this to his mother, and frequently she remarked it as a discovery of her own.

That evening when the young men went home there was a great hub-hub in the hall. William had just come in, covered with dust and was blowing like a hippopotamus. "If I live, I'll kill him; mind what I tell you."

"What's the trouble?" Howard asked. William had been knocked down by a scorcher.

*CHAPTER XXII.*

*TOLD HIM GOOD-BYE.*

At the breakfast table the next morning the Judge paid no attention to Howard, though he knew that his departure was to take place that day. He had striven to be genial when Mrs. Elbridge was present, and for a time had succeeded, but all effort was thrown off now.

Howard went to his room to make ready, and his mother went with him. The Judge was walking up and down in his office as they passed his door. Florence entered, and the Judge bowed to her.

"Are you going to tell Howard good-bye?" she asked.

"That's easy enough," he answered.

"He will come in here to see you before he goes."

"How do you know?"

"I know because it is not possible for him to prove so unnatural as--"

The Judge raised his hand. "Don't say it, please."

She stood looking at him. "Don't you think you ought to tell him why you have hardened your heart against him?"

"I shall tell him nothing."

"And is that the part of a true man? Is it not almost inhuman to let him suffer in ignorance?"

The Judge raised his hand and looked toward the door. "I tell you, it is to protect her. Can't you see?"

"It is well enough to protect her, but you ought to give him an opportunity to defend himself."

"There is no defense. Mind, your oath."

"Oh, I am sick of that," she said. "Every time I say a word in his behalf you remind me of a foolish vow. Judge, I am weary of this senseless and insane drama, seeing the others stumble about in the dark while you and I stand in the light. No, you do not stand in the light, I alone am in the light of truth; and if I did not think that the trip out West would be good for him. I would not let him go; I would stop him short with what you have told me and made me swear by the memory of my mother not to repeat. No wonder you put your hand to your head. It must ache. But, there, I won't reproach you."

He had sat down. She went to him and put her hand on his shoulder. He looked up, and then looked down again. "I believe something is going to clear it all up one of these days," she said. He got up and resumed his walk. Howard's voice came down the hall: "Has the trunk gone yet?"

"I think he is coming," she said.

"Stay with me, Florence."

"No, you must face him, the injured, alone."

"I have not injured him; he has injured me."

She went out and the Judge stood there waiting for Howard. He came in, more serious now that everything had been made ready. "I am about to start for the West, sir," he said. "I can't stand it here any longer. You frown at me, and when I beg you to tell me--"

"How long do you expect to be gone?" the Judge interrupted.

"Till the day when I am to marry almost in secret, or when you send for me."

The Judge was walking up and down. He turned and replied. "I shall not send for you."

"Do you still deny us the right to be married in a church?"

"You shall never marry her at all with my sanction, and if you marry her without it, you marry out West or in there," he added, waving toward the drawing room. "There must be no guests."

"I should like to marry in my father's house, but on the prairie or in the woods will do as well; it makes no difference." He looked hard at his father, and, after a time, added: "I didn't think that a man could change so much--be so unnatural."

"None of that, sir!" the Judge exclaimed, turning upon him. "It is not for you to call me unnatural."

"Father, if I have committed a crime in your eye, why don't you tell me what it is?"

"In my eye! You must have studied long to frame that speech."

"But why don't you tell me?"

"Don't mock me, sir."

Howard looked at him, as if trying to study out something in his countenance, in his eye. "May I ask you something?"

"Why should you desire my permission since you would pay no attention to my refusal? What is it that you wish to ask?"

"May I ask if there has ever been any insanity in our family?"

The Judge started. "In our family--in my family there has been something worse than insanity."

Howard slowly nodded his head as if admitting a sad fact. "Yes, there has been the death of affection--in your family."

"Ah," cried the Judge, "the shrouding of a hope."

"The murder of a jovial spirit," said Howard.

"Don't shoot your poisonous arrows at me. Go on, away. Good-bye." He waved his hand. Howard turned toward the door, but halted, faced about and looked at the Judge with troubled tenderness. "Father, I don't know exactly where I am going, but out in the wilds somewhere to find a place for me and mine. I did not believe--couldn't have foreseen such a moment as this. It seems to me that my father is gone." He paused, and the Judge stood with his face turned away. "Shall I write to you?"

"No," said the Judge, without looking round.

Mrs. Elbridge came in and found them standing apart, the Judge still with his back toward Howard. "Howard," she said, "the cab is waiting. Judge, Howard is going away from us."

The old man turned slightly, looked at her, nodded his head, said "yes," and walked to the opposite side of the room. Mrs. Elbridge touched her forehead. "You must bear with him," she whispered. "You can see where the trouble lies."

"Yes, and it is a sorrowful thought. I can hardly believe it. And to think that he should select me as the object of his contempt."

"He will get over it soon and send for you," she said in a low voice. "A disordered mind turns against the loved one--nearly always." Then, advancing toward the old man, she said: "Judge, tell him good-bye."

"I have," replied the old man, standing with his face turned from her. She went to him and, touching his arm, said: "But not in your old way--not as you would have told him good-bye before--before you were ill."

"I am not ill," he said, without turning his eyes toward her. "I never was better in my life."

"But, tell him good-bye, please."

"I tell you I have!" he exclaimed, stamping upon the floor; and turning with his hand uplifted, he cried: "Can't you see--no, you cannot," he broke off, his hand shaking, and slowly falling to his side. "No, you cannot see, must not see. I beg your pardon for speaking so impatiently, but I am worried, Rachel; worried, and--"

"Yes, I know," she said, taking the arm which he had raised from under her gentle touch. "But, you must tell him good-bye."

The Judge struggled against her, though not with violence; the struggle, indeed, was more against himself. She led him toward Howard, who stood looking on, sorrowfully.

"Put your arm about him," she said to the Judge. "For me, please."

"For you," he said, and suffered her to put his arm on Howard's shoulder. She raised his other arm, and now he stood with both arms about the boy's neck.

"Good-bye, father," said Howard.

For a moment the old man's countenance was aglow with the light of love and sympathy; convulsively he pressed Howard to his bosom--but a horror seemed to seize him, the light of sympathy went out as if blown by a cold wind, and, stepping back, he said:

"There. Go. Not another word. Why do you continue to stand there gazing at me? Rachel, can't you take him away? I have told him good-bye to please you--now, why don't you oblige me by taking him away?"

"But, dear, have you no word for him?"

"Word, yes. Good-bye."

"No word of advice?"

"Advice! Don't mock me. Go away, please. Can't you see--no, you cannot, and why should I expect it? Now go."

"We are going," she said.

"Yes, but--I beg your pardon--but why don't you?"

She took Howard's arm and walked out, looking back as if she hoped that the Judge might repent and follow, but he did not; he resumed his walk up and down the room. Suddenly he turned. "Now, what are you doing, William?" The brother had entered and was turning over papers on the desk.

"I am looking for a slip of paper I dropped out of my pocket-book."

"You didn't leave anything here."

"That may be," said William, "but I don't know whether I did or not till I find out. A man never knows--"

"Some men never know," the Judge broke in, going over to the desk and taking a paper out of William's hand. "Go away, please." William stepped back, shocking himself from the storage battery of his dignity. "Oh, I can go, if that's what you want."

"That's what I want."

"It is? All right. John, I'll be hanged if I know what's the matter with you." The Judge was paying no attention. He was listening to a cab driving off from the door. "I say, sir, I'll be hanged if I know what's the matter with you."

"I heard what you said."

"I don't know whether you did or not. There's no living in the house with you. And last night, after I had been knocked down in the street--and I'm going to kill him if detectives can find him--last night when I merely intimated that something had taken place on the fourteenth of September, you--"

"William, are you going to begin all that over again?"

"I don't know what you mean by again. John, you talk in riddles. I can't for the life of me get at your meaning. Yes, sir, and last night you flew off like a jug handle when I told you that Carl Miller--"

"Oh, damn Carl Miller."

"That's all right. I don't care how much you damn him. He deserves it--broke a pair of boots for me and made 'em so kidney footed that I couldn't walk in 'em. But I am positive about that other date, John. It was the tenth."

The Judge looked at him, drew a long breath, and said: "William, you are an old fool."

"An old fool, John--old? Did you say old?"

"That is what I said. Old."

William sighed. "Then, that settles it. It isn't so bad to be simply a fool--for we may grow out of that as time goes on--but to be an old fool--John, I'll leave your house. I can't stand your abuse any longer. I am without means, broke, you might say, and I don't know which way to turn, except to turn my back on your ill-treatment of me. I may starve to death or be killed in the street or on some freight car, stealing a ride from misery to misery, but I am going."

"William, sit down and behave yourself."

"Never again will I sit down in your house. I have joked with you, I know, and have said a great many things that I didn't mean, but I am in deadly earnest this time. I am going away."

The Judge put his hand on William's shoulder. "Look at me," he said. "Don't leave me. I need you. I am mean, and I know it, but I beg of you not to leave me."

"Mean!" William cried. "Who the deuce said you were mean? Show the villain to me. Show him to me, I tell you."

"There, now, sit down; it is all right."

"No, sir, it is not all right, and it never will be till I find the scoundrel that called you mean. Was it Bradley? Tell me, and I'll choke him till his eyes pop out. Was it Bradley?"

The Judge smiled. "Bradley," said he, "is one of my props. He is the son of my old friend, and I think the world of him."

"Well, let him congratulate himself on his escape, for before the Lord I would choke him. It is all right, yes, sir--but, really, John, if I tell you earnestly it was on the tenth won't you believe--"

"Yes, yes; let it be the tenth."

"Let it be! Why, confound it, I tell you it was the tenth."

"All right. When you go out I wish you would tell Florence to come here."

William grunted. "Oh, I can go out. By the way, John, Howard asked me a pertinent question this morning. And it staggered me a little. He wanted to know whether there had ever been any insanity in our family."

The Judge showed signs of coming agitation, but he fought with himself as it was his custom to fight. "What did you tell him?"

"I lied, I told him no. John, do you remember the night when they came from the mad-house and told us children that father was dead?"

"Don't, William; don't. Please tell Florence to come here."