Part 13

William went out and the Judge resumed his walk up and down the pathway of trouble. Yes, he did remember the night when they came from the mad-house, two men in a doctor's gig; he remembered the lamps on each side of the vehicle, eyes of a great bug, they seemed. But his father's malady had not come of inheritance, but of fever. But other men had fever and did not go mad. Could it be that he himself had been touched with the disease--touched in the eye with a vision? No, for there was Bodney. He had seen it. "My mind is sound, even in distress," he mused. "But wouldn't it have been better if I had talked to him kindly about his crime? I ought to have let him know that I saw him. No, his mother would have drawn it out of him--love sucking poison from a wound."

Florence entered the room, advanced a few paces, halted, and stood, looking at him. "Well, you sent for me and I am here."

"Yes, sit down, please."

"No, I thank you."

The Judge looked at her sorrowfully. "Did Howard tell you where he intends to go?"

Florence looked at him with a smile, but in the smile he saw bitterness. "Does it concern you?" she asked.

"I am not a brute, Florence."

"No," she said. "A brute is not unnatural."

"Don't, please. I am trying not to be unnatural. There can be a broken heart shielding a heart to keep it from breaking."

"You were a judge, a man of justice. And was it just to let him suffer in the dark? Was it right to lock your own lips and put a seal on mine. Judge, I ought to have told him in your presence."

"Don't say that."

"But I do say it. You presume upon what you are pleased to think is my strength of character. I am beginning to believe that I was weak instead of strong. Yes, I ought to have told him in your presence. I ought to have said: 'Your father, who has been a judge, has passed sentence upon you without giving you a hearing. He says you are a thief.'"

"Hush," said the Judge, in a loud whisper, motioning toward the door. "Don't talk that way to me. Ah, I have killed all the love you ever had for me."

"You have choked it and it is gasping."

"I am grieved--but it cannot be undone--the fingers are stiffened about your gasping love." He walked up and down for a time, and then turned again to her. "When you get a letter from him will you let me read it?"

"No. His heart will write to mine, and your eye would blur the words."

"Don't say that. I am not without a heart. I had a heart--it is broken." He walked off again, but turned quickly. "Florence, I sometimes wonder if my eye could have deceived me--could have lied to me."

She moved toward him, her hands uplifted, hope in her face. "A man's mind lies to him, and why not his eyes?" the Judge continued. Florence caught him by the arm and looked appealingly at him. "But your brother, Florence--your brother. He saw him, too."

"What!" she cried, stepping back. "Brother saw him! You didn't tell me that."

"I promised him I would not tell you."

"Ah, you break your promises and expect me to keep mine. I will go this moment and tell his mother."

He caught her arm and poured out a distressful imploration, a prayer. "I would rather you'd stab me," he said, concluding. "I would rather you'd kill us both. But I didn't swear, Florence. You have taken an oath."

"Judge, that is cowardly."

"Yes, it is. I am a coward--but only for her. A bitter word, Florence."

"Yes, forgive me. I didn't mean that. You are not a coward, but you are blind." He held forth his hands. She stepped back, shaking her head.

"All gone," said he, "all respect, all confidence. And you were my daughter."

"I was."

"In love and in duty," he said.

"In both," she replied. "In both, yes, and now love is gasping and duty has become a hard master." Suddenly she sprang toward him. "Brother saw him! I am just beginning to realize what you said. I don't believe it. His eyes lied, too."

"Oh, beautiful faith, it would move a mountain."

"It would pluck a mote from an eye. May I go now?"

"I am not on the bench to discharge or restrain you. But, just a moment. You feel that I am a tyrant. That could not have been possible with your former self. What is so cold as frozen gentleness? And now it is only through the frost-crusted windows that I can catch a glimpse of your other spirit."

"In the hall, yesterday," she said, "I thought that I heard a lurking echo of your old laughter."

He made a gesture of distress. "Don't remind me of it," he said.

"May I go?"

"Yes. But let me ask you one more favor. Don't tell your brother that I mentioned him."

"Another chain," she said.

*CHAPTER XXIII.*

*THE LIGHT BREAKS.*

The Judge turned and saw Bradley in the door. His appearance at any moment was not in the nature of a surprise. Agnes said that she expected him at most unexpected times. He no doubt regarded himself as a brave man, and perhaps he was; it required courage to be so timidly persistent.

"I hope I don't intrude," said the preacher.

"Oh, not at all. Come in."

"Miss Agnes is out for a walk, I understand," said Bradley, sitting down.

The Judge stood looking at him absent-mindedly. "Ah, yes, I suppose so. But I don't know why I suppose so. The truth is, I don't know anything about it. I beg your pardon, Bradley. I am--am greatly disturbed. The fact is, I hardly know what I am about. I am a mystery unto myself. I was just thinking of it as you came in. It does not seem possible for a man, with a mountain of sorrow upon his heart, to turn squarely about and speculate upon trivial things--to jest, if I may say so, and I must for it is a fact. I am glad you came."

"I am always delighted to come, Judge. Here I find the shade of a palm tree in a great desert of trade. And I came in the hope of finding you better."

"Better!" The Judge looked at him almost sternly. "Better, why I am not sick. What put that into your head, Bradley?"

"Why, I understood from what you have said that your health was not of the best."

"But it is of the best, I assure you. But I brood, yes, I brood, and that is worse than ill-health--it is the ill health of the mind, the soul."

"I am afraid you work too hard."

"Um, work, I hardly know what that is. I am trying to rest, but it is like a man seeking sleep on a bed of thorns. Work is all right, for we can put it aside, but worry rides us till we are down, and then sits on our breast, waiting for us to get up."

William came in, shying a little upon seeing Bradley, but shook hands with him. "I am glad to see you looking so well, Mr. William," said the preacher.

"Oh, I'm a pine knot. Ain't I, John?"

The Judge looked at him inquiringly. "What did you say?"

"I said I was a pine knot."

"Did you?"

"Did I? Didn't I just say I did?"

"If you did, you did. That's all. But who accused you of not being a pine knot?"

Bradley chuckled, and William frowned at him; then, addressing himself to the Judge, the old fellow said: "You did. You disputed it. You call me a liar every time I open my mouth."

"William, you have often declared that you are not in the plot, but the first thing you know you may break into it."

"No, I won't!" William exclaimed, shaking his finger. "And I won't break into your intellectual atmosphere, either." He turned to Bradley. "Why, sir, John is a regular professor, browbeating his class. He expects everybody to talk book. I say, damn a book. I beg your pardon. It is the first time I ever said that in the presence of a preacher."

Bradley laughed. "It's all right, Mr. William, if you feel that way."

"Is it? Then, I say, damn a book. What I want is action."

"I subscribe to your doctrine concerning much of our literary output," said the preacher.

William was so delighted at this that he seized the preacher's hand and shook it with more of vigor than he was wont to put forth. "Good for you, Bradley. I am half inclined to come to hear you preach."

A twinkle in the Judge's eye showed that again he was playing in the midst of his sorrow. "You'd never get there, William. You could never settle on the date."

"Oh, you be confound, John. I have settled on more dates than you ever saw." He arose, went to the table and took up a pair of long shears. "Let me take these to my room, will you? I want to clip out something for my scrap-book."

"Oh, I thought you damned a book. No, sir, put those shears right down where you found them. You took my mucilage off yesterday and I had to go after it--down where you found them."

William put down the shears and looked angrily at the Judge. "Oh, I can put them down."

"Thank you."

"May I have a cigar, John?"

"Help yourself."

"Much obliged." He went to the desk, took up a box of cigars and walked out unnoticed by the Judge, who had turned his back, following a strand of his sorrow, intertwined with a strand of humor, the two phases of himself which he could not comprehend. He walked slowly to the wall, and, turning, remarked, as he walked toward the preacher, "Bradley, I feel as one waiting for something--some shadow."

"I'm not a shadow," Agnes cried, skipping into the room. Bradley arose with a bow. "No, for shadows may be dark," he replied.

"Did you hear that, Mr. Judge? Did you hear him say that shadows may be dark? Of course, for if they were bright they wouldn't be shadows. May I sit here?" She sat on a corner of the long baize table swinging her feet, as if the music in her soul impelled her to dance, Bradley mused. "Why do you people stick in here all the time?" she went on. "Oh, I see," she added, lifting her hand with a piece of paper adhering to it. "You glue yourselves in here." She plucked off the paper, took out a handkerchief, a dainty bit of lace, and wiped her hand. "Have you just got here, Mr. Bradley? What's the news? Who's murdered on the West Side? They have murdered somebody every day since I came, first one side and then the other, and it's the West Side's turn today. Anybody killed today?"

"I don't know," Bradley replied, "but I hear that a prominent citizen was sand-bagged last night--in front of a church."

"Oh, for pity sake. And had he came out of a church fair? Did the robber get any money?"

"Bradley," said the Judge, "as William would say, she is putting it on you."

Bradley smiled, and said that it seemed so. Bodney stepped into the room, halted as if confused, and as Bradley got up to shake hands with him, hurriedly went out. Agnes spoke in an undertone to the preacher. "Mr. Bodney is worried, too. And it makes me awfully sorry to see the Judge so distressed at times. Can't you do something for him?"

"I can simply advise him not to worry, that's all."

"Beg him not to be so sad. I don't see how he can be. Everything is so bright."

The Judge went to the desk to get a cigar. "That rascal has taken every one of my cigars. Now, I've got to find him to recover my property." He went out, and they heard him calling William.

"They have to watch Mr. William all the time," said Agnes. "He carries off everything he can get his hands on. They say his room looks like a junk shop."

Bradley nodded in acknowledgment, and after a short silence, full of meditation, he said: "You seem still to enjoy your visit. And I hope you are not thinking of going home."

"Ah, ha, I am having a lovely time. Isn't it a nice place to visit. They make you feel so much at home, snap at each other if they want to, just as if you weren't here. That's the way for people to do; make you feel at home. But they are just as good as they can be, and their little spats are so full of fun to me, only it makes me sad to see the Judge worry. Yes, I am having a lovely time. I went to the vaudeville yesterday, and tomorrow I am going to your church."

"Oh, you are?" Bradley laughed.

"Ah, ha. Oh, do you know what I heard about you? I heard you were seen walking along the street with a drunken man."

"Yes, a friend of mine. And if a preacher shouldn't support a staggering brother, who should?"

"Oh, how human. I like you for that?"

"Do you?"

"Yes, I do."

"And for that alone?"

"Oh, no, I like you for that and for a good many other things. I think I could have lots of fun with you."

"Fun with me?" The preacher was thinking of a summer evening in Aldine Square, the music of the fountain, the sweetness of the flowers.

"Ah, ha. There's something about you that makes me feel like a little girl. And I dreamed that you took me by the hand and led me along."

"Agnes, let me lead you."

She slid off the corner of the table and stood with her hands flat together, like a delighted child, but suddenly she looked up with seriousness in her eyes. "But now you make me feel like a woman."

The Judge came in. Bradley spoke almost in a whisper. "But a woman might be led by a man." And then to the Judge he remarked, striving to hide his annoyance at the interruption: "I see you have recovered your property."

The Judge sat down on a chair near the table. "Yes, some of it. William is a good grabber, but he gives up after an argument, and there is some virtue in that."

"What was in the paper that worried Mr. Bodney so?" Agnes asked, speaking to the Judge.

"I don't know. Has anything worried him?"

"Yes, I saw him grabbing the paper as if he would tear it to pieces."

"Ball game, probably," said the Judge, and then looking at Agnes he added: "Nothing seems to bother you, little one."

"No, sir. I won't let it. When I am worried something jumps this way," she said, making an upward motion with her hands, indicating the sudden rise of spirits, "and the bother is gone."

The Judge spoke to Bradley. "The heart of youth jumps up and says boo to a trouble and frightens it away."

"Ah," replied Bradley, "and couldn't an older heart learn to boo a trouble away?"

The Judge shook his head. "The old heart crouches, but cannot jump."

"Make it jump," Agnes cried. "Let me hear you laugh as you used to."

"The saints laugh with an old man," said Bradley.

"Don't," the Judge interposed, with a slow gesture. "Your roses are pretty, but you bring them to a funeral. No, I don't mean that. I mean that I am simply worried over a little matter, but I am getting better and will be all right pretty soon. I shall be my old self in a very short time." Bodney entered, and stood looking fixedly at the Judge. "What is it, George?"

Bodney nodded to Bradley and Agnes. "I beg your pardon, but I must see the Judge alone."

Bradley asked Agnes if she would accept of banishment with him. "Yes," she said. "Come on."

"It is not necessary," the Judge spoke up. "We can--"

"I beg your pardon," Bodney broke in, "but it is necessary."

"Of course it is," Agnes declared. "As Mr. William would say, we are not in the plot."

"No," said Bodney, bowing to her.

As they were going out, the Judge called to the preacher. "Don't go away without seeing me again, Bradley. I want you to spend the day with me."

Bodney leaned against the table, stepped off, came back, and stood looking down upon the Judge. The old man glanced up. "Well?"

It was some time before Bodney could speak. His words seemed dry in his mouth. At last he began: "I carried half of a heavy load. Something has thrown the other half on me, and I can't stand up under it--dispatch--railroad wreck--"

The Judge jumped out of his chair. "What!"

Bodney continued. "Yes. Goyle is dead."

"Oh, Goyle. I was afraid--where?"

"In Michigan, at fifteen minutes to eleven, yesterday. I have cause to note the time. The load--"

"Well, go ahead. But let me tell you now, George, you have no cause to regret the broken association. I deplore the man's death, of course, but I begun to feel that his influence upon you was bad. I had begun to dream about him, and to fear that he had a strange influence upon me. But go ahead."

"Half of it was crushing me, and I can't stand it all. I--"

"Why, what's the matter? What are you trying to tell. Go ahead."

"Judge, Goyle robbed the safe--Goyle and I--wait--I gave him the combination--he made up for Howard--I--"

The Judge seized the shears and raised them high above his head, his eyes fixed on Bodney's breast. Bodney did not flinch. The old man raised his eyes, to meet a steady gaze; and he stood with the shears high in his hand. He had uttered no outcry, no sound came from him, no sound that could have been heard beyond the door--only a low groan, like the moan of a fever-stricken man, turning over in his sleep.

"Kill me, Judge, I deserve it."

The shears fell from the old man's hand, and he dropped upon the chair, his arms upon the table and his face upon them.

"I wish you had struck me."

With a slight motion of the hand the Judge waved him off. Bodney continued: "For your heart there is a cure. There is none for mine. I was a fool, I was caught, I gambled, I couldn't quit, that snake held me, charmed me, hypnotized me. I knocked him down and he bled black on the floor, and I left him lying there, but I could not break loose from him."

The Judge waved him off. "Don't tempt me to look upon your face again."

Bodney did not move. "The old laugh that they have spoken so much about may return; old confidences and an old love will be restored, but there must be a wanderer that can never come back, a fool whom nature made weak. But I feel that if you would give me your hand--I am not deserving of it--but I feel that if I could once more touch that honorable hand, I could go forth an honest man. I would try."

The Judge slowly raised his head. Tears were in his eyes. He held forth his hand. Bodney grasped it, and--was gone.

*CHAPTER XXIV.*

*SENT A MESSAGE.*

William went to the office door and found it locked. This was so singular a happening that the old fellow stalked about the house, marveling over it and complaining against an innovation that shut a man out of an apartment that had served so long as a sort of public domain. It was like the closing of a park or a county road. Everyone laughed at him and he snorted. In the vocabulary of William's contempt, the snort was the strongest expression. "It is all right to laugh," said he, "but I want to tell you that there has got to be a change here." He returned to the office door and knocked upon it, but his knuckles aroused no heed within. He could hear the Judge walking up and down. Bodney had been gone nearly half an hour. But the Judge had not noted the time. To him, life was but a conflicting, mental eternity, and he was in the whirling midst of it. For a long time he sat with his head on the table, one arm stretched out before him, the other hanging limp; then he staggered about the room, and then sat down with his head in his hands. To the eye turned inward all was black, till gradually a light appeared, seeming softly to shine upon a hideous shape, crouching in a dark corner. He gazed upon it, and it spoke, shrinking further back from the soft light. "I am your injustice," it said. He got up, raised a window, and stood looking out upon the sunlight in the street. But he shivered as if with cold, and his lips moved as if he were talking and swallowing his words down into deep silence. A gladness began to form in his heart. His son was innocent, but in that innocence there was a reproach. He had been unnatural as a father, and might he not many a time have been unjust as a judge? He acknowledged to himself that he must have decided in favor of error while on the bench. His retirement was a sort of unconscious justice. He realized that his mind had not been sound. He had felt a coming weakness. But now he felt a coming strength. The trial through which he had passed must have served as a test. It was to restore or ruin his mental life. But why should there have been such a test, and why should the innocent have suffered? It would not do to reason, and he banished the test idea, fighting it off. Still, he acknowledged that his mind had sickened and that now it was gaining strength. He remembered his frivolity and loathed it, his jokes with William at a time when his heart was heavy and swollen. "Unnatural as a father and inconsistent as a man," he muttered. "But who is to judge of man's naturalness? One kink in the mind and the entire world is changed." William knocked again, and now the Judge opened the door. The old fellow looked at his brother and exclaimed:

"Why, what has happened, John?"

"Nothing, except that I have been really ill. But I am almost recovered. My mind has passed through a sort of crisis, William. I can now look back and see that I was not right. My present strength tells me of my former weakness. I am soon to be entirely well."

"Well, I am glad to hear that. It is particularly gratifying to me. And I suppose that you are, or, at least, soon will be, willing to concede that I am sometimes correct with regards to my dates."

"Yes, but we won't mention that. It is of no importance."

"What! No importance? Take care, John, you'll get back where you were, for when a man says that a date is of no importance, he's in danger."

"William, I want you to do me a favor. I am almost afraid to trust myself to go out just now. Wait a moment." He went to his desk, found a telegraph blank, and upon it wrote the following message: "The light has broken. Come back at once." William read the words and looked at him. "Go to the station," said the Judge, "and send this to Howard, in care of the conductor. It is not a secret, mind you, but don't stay to show it. They would delay you with puzzling over it."

"All right, I'll jump into a cab and go right over. I know the station. It's only a few blocks from here. He didn't go all the way down town. I heard him tell his mother. By the way," William added, "I found one of Howard's French books--"

"Put it back where you found it."

"What, you haven't flopped, have you?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Why, you said that French literature was the--"

"It is the civilizing force of the modern world. Go on, please. Just a moment. Tell Florence that I wish to see her."

When Florence came in her face was radiant. William had spread the news of Howard's recall. "Ah," said the Judge, "you know that I have sent for him."

"Yes, father," she replied, going up to him with outstretched hands. He took her in his arms and kissed her. "What has happened?" she asked.

"The atmosphere is cleared, my dear."

"But, what cleared it?"

"The truth. You were right. I saw a vision."

She looked at him. "But what was it that brother saw?"

"Ah," said the old man, shaking his head, "you are shrewd. You are not willing to let it pass. Florence, we both saw Goyle disguised with his devilish art as Howard."

She gazed at him. "Is that all?"

"All? Is not that enough for us to know, my child?"

"But, why did brother happen to lead you into the office just at that time?"

"There, I have told enough, and what I have told you must not repeat. If there is anything to come, Howard may tell you, but my wife must never know that I have been so weak and unnatural a father."

"But she can see that something must have occurred to change your bearing toward Howard. Mr. William has told her that you have sent for him, and she is in her room with tears of joy in her eyes."

"Florence, I am striving to be calm, the master of myself. I don't deserve to be happy--not yet. How could I have been so blind? And how at times could I have indulged in levity with such a sorrow upon my heart?"

"It was the truth, father, striving to break through."