Part 14

He nodded his head. "Yes, and now we must tell her something. Ah, tell her that a man came and brought me word that my brother is not dead. Keep her from coming to me with any sort of demonstration. I can't stand it. I must recall my old self and become gradually accustomed to it. I must realize that it was all a dream and that it is passing away. Tomorrow, with Howard, we may make a joke of it."

"It will never be a joke with me."

"No, my child, I did not mean that. It was a nightmare--a breath-shape breathed upon us by the devil while we slept. But we are awake now, and God's sun shines. Go to her and tell her that my brother is not dead."

"I will. But, father, do you realize how resourceful you have made me--how replete with falsehood? And must I not go into the closet and pray for forgiveness?"

"It was done for love, my dear; and love, which is the soul of all up yonder, has forgiven already."

Florence and Mrs. Elbridge entered the drawing room. "Who brought that news that his brother was not dead?" Mrs. Elbridge asked.

"A man. He was in a great hurry to catch a train and could not stop long. He brought direct word from Mr. Henry himself."

"Then there can be no doubt about it."

"No. And I did not believe it in the first place."

"Who is in there with him?"

"I think Agnes and the preacher have just gone in."

"This is a happy day," said Mrs. Elbridge, looking toward the door.

"A day when falsehood may be told, but when truth is revealed," Florence replied. "It is one of God's days."

"All days are His, my dear."

Florence slowly shook her head. "No, not all."

The Judge came in. He put his arms about Mrs. Elbridge. "Rachel," he said, "you shall never see my face gloomy again. I will go laughing down into green old age, into the very moss of time." He motioned toward the office. "In there is a beautiful picture of sweet distress."

Mrs. Elbridge looked upon him with a trembling lip. "But, my dear, it is not more beautiful than the fact that you sent for your son and that you yourself have come back to us all."

The Judge smiled. Florence could see that he was growing stronger, that his mind was clearing. "He returns like a lost child suddenly finding the path home," she said.

"Faith has its wisdom and its reward," replied the Judge, looking at her. "In the days of the New Testament, you would have been one of the followers. You would have wiped His feet with your hair." And, looking at his watch, he added: "I wonder why William doesn't come back."

"It is not time," Mrs. Elbridge replied, glancing at the clock.

"The minutes are hours, but clearing and strengthening hours," said the Judge. He turned about and began to walk up and down the room, with all the simpleness of his nature in his face. He did not look like a man who had sat in judgment upon the actions of men. His heart had cried for pardon, and a belief that it had come lighted his countenance. A man who has been shrewd in the affairs of the world, sharp in practice, suspicious, sometimes becomes simple and trustful in the love of a grandchild. And at this time, the Judge might have reminded one of such a man.

Mrs. Elbridge stood in the door looking down the hall. The Judge halted to speak to Florence. "Forgiveness," said he, "is the essence of all that is noble in life. And do you forgive me?"

"Yes," she said. "And I hope that I shall be forgiven all the falsehoods I have been forced to tell."

"They were for her, Florence, and there is a virtue in an untruth that shields a heart." He moved closer to her and added: "I wonder at your strength and marvel at my weakness."

"You were groping in the dark. It was not your fault, but your nature."

"And you are my daughter again."

"Yes," said Florence, "in love and in duty."

Mrs. Elbridge went out. The Judge and Florence sat down to wait for William. He was a sort of way-station which must be reached before they could arrive at Howard. The Judge told her of the darkness through which he had passed, throwing new light upon it, as if she had not seen it, as she stood by, holding a torch. He spoke of Goyle, of his strange power; he told her of the newspaper cutting that gave account of his mind-reading, and finally he told her of Bodney's confession. She was prepared, and showed no agitation. But there was grief on her face. Then he told her that he could not find it in his heart to condemn him. "In your own words, Florence, it was not his fault, but his nature. I will take him back, and not even Howard must know of his part in--in my darkness."

"Howard ought to know everything," she said. "But not now, my dear; by degrees, as he shall be able to bear it. He is generous, and I believe he will forgive."

Mrs. Elbridge returned and stood in the door. "Here comes William," she said. The Judge arose. William came in puffing. "We were looking for you," said Mrs. Elbridge.

"Well, now," replied the old fellow, "you don't have to look long for me, I'll tell you that. I made the driver whip his horses all the way there and back."

"And are you sure that your message caught the train?" said the Judge.

"Oh, I always fetch 'em whenever I go after 'em."

"Are you sure you sent it all right?" the Judge asked.

"John, I thought you'd get well. But, sir, you exhibit the most alarming sign of sickness I have ever seen in you. Sure I sent it all right! What other way do I ever do a thing? Of course I sent it all right. The train wasn't far out, and there's one back every few minutes."

"It seems that he has been gone a year instead of two hours," said the Judge.

Florence smiled at him. "And are we to be married in secret?" she asked, speaking low.

"My dear, that shall be as you please. I have only one wish--that it shall be one of the happiest days of my life, and I believe that it will be."

"What day of the month is this?" William asked.

"The fifth," the Judge answered.

"Are you sure?"

"I am sure it is not the tenth of June, sixty-three," said the Judge, and was in deep regret at his levity at such a time, when his wife spoke up, "Judge, please don't get him started."

"Started!" William snorted. "Now--now, that's good. A man races all the way to the station and back, and they talk about getting him started." Suddenly he thrust his hands into his pockets and stood staring at the wall. "Well, if that don't beat anything I ever saw."

"What is the trouble?" the Judge asked.

"Why, I dated that telegram the fourth."

"You did!" Mrs. Elbridge cried. The Judge looked hard at his brother. "It won't make any difference," said Florence. "He will know that it was a mistake."

"He will undoubtedly know who sent it," the Judge added.

"I wonder why Mr. Bradley and Agnes stay in that dingy place," said Mrs. Elbridge, always anxious to change the talk from William's dates.

"The place may be dingy," replied the Judge, "but there are no cobwebs hanging from the rafters in the abode of love."

"Judge!" she said, giving him a smiling frown.

"To some eyes," remarked Florence, half musingly, "there may be cobwebs hanging from the rafters in love's abode, but to love they are strands of gold."

"Let us go out and watch for his coming," said Mrs. Elbridge, taking Florence by the arm. They went out, leaving William staring at the Judge.

"By the way, what's this I happened to hear about brother Henry being dead? I didn't know he was dead till he wasn't."

"You didn't?"

"I mean I heard the news of his death and the contradiction about the same time. Why did you keep it from me?"

"Oh, I knew there wasn't any truth in the report, and there wasn't anything to be gained by telling you."

"Anything to be gained. Do you only tell a man a thing when there is something to be gained by it?"

The Judge looked at the clock and then at his watch. "He ought to be here pretty soon. I want everybody to keep away from me. I want to see him first alone--in here."

"But what's all this mystery about? I'll be hanged if you haven't put my light under a bushel."

"No, William, it is my light that has been under a bushel."

"Everything may be all right, John, but I don't understand it. There was something I wanted to say. Yes. In case I forget it, tell him the date was a mistake."

"You won't forget it, William. You never forget a mistaken date."

"There you go again. Can't a man make a request?"

"I believe a man can, William."

"You don't believe anything of the sort, and you know it. But I won't be left in the dark. I refuse to stumble in ignorance." He started toward the door.

"What are you going to do?"

"I am going to get the morning paper and settle that date."

"All right," said the Judge, as William went out. "And tell them out there that I must see him here alone. Don't forget that." He walked up and down the room and then stood at the door. "Do you see anything of him yet?" he called to his wife.

"Not yet. It isn't time. But here's a cab. It's going to stop--no, it's gone on."

"Let me get there," said the Judge, as if the others were responsible for the fact that the cab had not halted and put Howard down at the door. A moment after he went out Bradley and Agnes entered the room. "They are gone to watch for him. Shall we go, too?" the girl asked, looking at him with a mischievous quiz in her eyes.

"No, let us stop here a moment. Strange, isn't it, his going away and coming back so soon?"

They sat on a sofa, looking at each other as if new interests were constantly springing up.

"We have talked all over the house," she said. "I feel as if I have been on an excursion. Yes, it is strange. Don't you think they have quarreled?"

"Perhaps--but it will bring them closer together."

"Yes," she said, "but I wouldn't like to quarrel just to be brought closer together. I wonder why Mr. Bodney went away, too."

"And you ask?"

"Yes, didn't you hear me? I heard him muttering as he went out. And I understood him to say that he wasn't coming back any more."

"I thought you knew why he went."

"Thought I did? How was I to know?"

"I could not help but think--"

"What did you think?" she broke in.

"That he had asked you to be his wife and--"

"Oh, he never thought of such a thing."

"And if he should?"

"I'd tell him no, of course."

"You may have to say yes sometime, Agnes."

She looked down. "I won't have to--but I may."

"Agnes, do you know what love is?"

"What a question. Of course I do."

"What is it?"

"Oh, it's er--er--don't you know what it is?"

"Yes, Agnes, it is a glorious defeat of the heart."

"Oh, I don't think so. It's more a victory than a defeat."

"No, the heart surrenders." They heard the Judge exclaim, "No, it is not going to stop."

"Agnes, did your heart ever surrender?"

"You must not ask me that."

"Why not? Did your heart ever fight till it was so tired that it had to give up--surrender?"

"You mustn't ask me that. You'll make me cry." She hid her eyes.

"In sorrow, Agnes?"

"No--no, in happiness."

He put his arms about her, kissed her, pouring forth his dream of the fountain and the evening in summer. The Judge startled them. "Don't let me disturb your tableau," he said, laughing, "but I must see my son in here alone, not in the office where--where the safe is."

"Come," said Bradley, taking Agnes by the hand, "Let us watch with them."

As they arose the Judge looked at Agnes. "Ah, I see happiness in your face, little one. Keep it there, Bradley, for it is God-given." He took the preacher's hand. "God bless you, Bradley. You are a good fellow."

"Don't call him fellow, Mr. Judge," said the girl, pretending to pout.

"Yes, fellow," Bradley replied. "It is closer to the weakness of man."

"Closer to his heart, Bradley," said the Judge.

"Yes," said Bradley, and then he spoke to Agnes. "Come with me."

"Anywhere with you," she replied, taking his arm and looking up into his face. They passed out, and the Judge stood, waiting. William appeared at the door. "It's all right now, John."

"What's all right?"

"That date--the one that caused so much trouble one night. It was on the tenth."

"Is it finally settled?" the Judge asked, listening.

"Yes, sir, finally, and nothing can throw me off. Here comes Howard." The Judge motioned, and William withdrew. Howard's footsteps were heard. The old man stood with his face turned from the door, striving to master himself. He felt that surely he should break down. Howard stepped into the room. "Father," he said. The Judge turned, and, perfectly calm, held forth his hand. Howard grasped it. "My son, let us be masters of ourselves. Let us be strong, for you will have need of strength. I have something to tell you."

"No," Howard replied. "You have nothing to tell. George met me at the station and told me. I have forgiven him. I know how he has suffered. I have seen his struggles. He must not be sent away. I have brought him back with me. He is out there."

"Howard," said the old man, "you are a noble fellow."

Howard stepped to the door and called Bodney. When he entered the Judge said: "George, I am going to rent an office in a modern building. That old place is worn out. We are going to start new. Ah, come in, Florence."

"I have simply come to tell you that dinner is ready," she said, with tears in her eyes.

"Yes," said the Judge. "Come, boys." Florence led the way, looking back, smiling, and the old man went out between Bodney and Howard, with his hands resting on their shoulders. In the hall stood Agnes, the preacher and William. The preacher was speaking. "If there were but one word to express all the qualities of God, I should select the word forgiveness," he said.

THE END.