Part 2

"I'll not tell it." He got up and glared at the Judge. "Oughtn't I to know what day it was on?"

"Yes, and I believe you do. Sit down."

"I'll do nothing of the sort, sir. I'll not sit here to be insulted by you or anybody else." He moved off toward the door, but before going out, halted, turned, and said: "Mr. Bradley, I'll tell you the story some other time. But John shall never hear it." He gave his head a jerk, intended for a bow of indignation, and strode out.

"He's the dearest old fellow in the world," said the Judge, "and I couldn't get along without him."

"Isn't he somewhat younger than yourself?"

"Yes, two years. Come in."

Mrs. Elbridge entered the dingy room, brightening it with her presence. "Won't you please come into the drawing room?" she said. "It is so dreary in here. Judge, why do you bring visitors to this room? After the Judge retired from the bench, Mr. Bradley, he decided to move the main branch of his law office out here, and I didn't think that he would make it his home, but he has; and, worse than that, he makes it a home for all his clients. They can stroll in from the street at any time."

"A sort of old shoe that fits everybody," said the Judge. "The only way to live is to be comfortable, and the only place in which to find comfort is in a room where nothing can be spoiled."

"But won't you phase come into the drawing room?"

"Yes, my dear, as soon as I am done smoking."

"But you may smoke in there. Do come, please. The girls want to see Mr. Bradley. Won't you make him come?" she asked, appealing to the preacher.

"Yes, very shortly," replied Bradley. "If he doesn't drop his cigar pretty soon we'll have him driven out with Mr. William's pipe."

"The threat is surely dark enough," she rejoined. "Don't be long, Judge," she added, turning to go. "Agnes declares that you shall not drag Mr. Bradley into your den and keep him shut out from civilized life."

Agnes was a Miss Temple, a visitor, bright and full of mischief. And during all the talk the preacher's mind had been dwelling upon her, the mischief in her eyes and the dazzle of her smile.

"Miss Temple is an exceedingly charming woman," he said, when Mrs. Elbridge had quitted the room. "She and Miss Bodney were schoolmates, I believe."

"Yes, and although much separated, have not broken the gauze bonds of school fellowship."

"Gauze bonds, Judge?"

"The beautiful but flimsy friendship of girlhood."

"Younger than Miss Bodney, I fancy."

"Yes, a year or so. She lives in Quincy, and is here for a month, but we shall keep her longer if we can. She is a source of great entertainment. Of course, you have noticed Florence closely--you couldn't help it. She is one of the sweetest creatures that ever lived, and she has character, too. I couldn't think more of her if she were my daughter--and she is to be my daughter. She and my son Howard are soon to be married. It is the prettiest romance in life or fiction. They are near the same age. They went to school hand in hand--sat beside each other at table, year after year, and in innocent love kissed each other good-night. They don't know the time when they made their first vows--upon this life they opened their eyes in love; an infant devotion reached forth its dimpled hand and drew their hearts together. Beautiful."

The preacher was thoughtful for a few moments, and then he said: "The Spirit of God doing the work it loves the best. And they are soon to be married. May I hope to--"

"You shall join them together, Bradley."

"I thank you."

"No, thank the memory of your father. I knew him well. He was my friend at a time when friendship meant something to me."

"And the young woman's brother, Judge. I haven't seen much of him."

"George Bodney? A manly young fellow, sir, quiet and thoughtful. He and Howard are to take up the law when I put it down--indeed, they have begun already."

"You are a happy man, Judge."

The Judge leaned back in his chair and was thoughtful; his cigar had gone out, and he held it listlessly. "Yes, for the others are so happy." He dropped the cigar stub upon the ash tray, roused himself, and said: "Nothing bothers me now. I am out of the current of life; I am in a quiet pool, in the shade; and I don't regret having passed out of the swift stream where the sun was blazing. No, I am rarely worried. Yes, I am annoyed at times, to be perfectly frank, now, for instance, and by a most peculiar thing. I--er--a friend of mine told me a story that bothers me, although it is but a trifle and shouldn't worry me at all. He is a lawyer, situated very much as I am. He has been missing money from his safe. No one but himself knows the combination. He couldn't suspect either of his sons; they didn't know the combination--not to be considered at all. He doesn't keep large sums on hand, of course; just enough to accommodate some of his old-fashioned clients who like to do business in the old-fashioned way. It bothered him, for he took it into his head that he himself was getting up at night and in his sleep taking the money from the safe and hiding it somewhere. For years, whenever he has had anything important on hand, he has been in the habit of waking himself at morning with an alarm clock. And I told him to set the clock in the safe and catch himself. He has done better than that--has fixed a gong so that it will ring whenever the inner drawer of the safe is pulled open. Of course, it is nothing to me, but--ah, come in, Agnes."

"Your wife has sent a bench warrant for you," said the young woman, entering the room and shaking her finger at the Judge.

"To be served by a charming deputy," said Bradley.

She laughed. "No wonder preachers catch women," she replied. "I'm glad I struck you. I was afraid I might miss."

The Judge arose and bowed to her. "We might dodge an arrow but not a perfume," said he.

"Now, Mr. Judge, when did you come from the South?" she cried. "But are you going with me? There are some more people in there; a young fellow that looks like a scared rabbit. But he's got nerve enough to say cawn't. I told him that if he'd come to Quincy we'd make him say kain't."

"Well, Bradley," said the Judge, "we are prisoners. Come on."

Bradley halted a moment to speak to Agnes. The Judge turned and asked if Howard and George Bodney were in the drawing room. She replied that Howard had gone or was going to a reception and that Mr. Bodney was somewhere about the house. She had seen him passing along the hall with Mr. Goyle. Just then, in evening dress, Howard came into the room. "I thought I heard Florence in here," said he, looking about.

"Going to leave us?" said the Judge.

"Yes, to bore and be politely bored. I want Florence to see if I look all right."

"Oh, I wonder," cried Agnes, "if any man will ever have that much confidence in me. There she is now. Florence, here's a man that wants you to put the stamp of approval upon his appearance."

Howard turned to Florence. "I wanted you to see me," he said.

"I've been looking for you," she replied.

Bradley, in an undertone, spoke to the Judge. "I can see the picture you drew of them."

"No," replied the preacher, with the light of admiration in his honest eyes.

Agnes spoke to Howard. "It must have been nearly half an hour since you and Florence saw each other. What an age," she added, with the caricature of a sigh. "But come on, Judge, you and Mr. Bradley." She led the two men away, looking back with another mock sigh at Florence.

"I may not be back till late," said Howard, "and I couldn't go without my good-night kiss."

She smiled upon him. "I knew that you had not forgotten it. And yet," she added, looking at him--"and yet I was anxious."

"Anxious?"

"Yes, but I didn't know why. Howard, within the past few days my love for you has taken so--so trembling a turn. We have been so happy, and--"

"And what, Florence?"

"Oh, I don't know, but something makes me afraid now. You know that there are times when happiness halts to shudder."

He put his arm about her. "Yes, we are sometimes afraid that something may happen because it has not. But it is only a reproachful fancy. We see the sorrow of others and are afraid that we don't deserve to be happy. But I must go," he added, kissing her.

She continued to cling to him. "Do I look all right?" he asked.

"I don't know--I can't see."

"Can't see?"

"No. Love, which they say is blind, has blinded me."

He kissed her again. "But if love blinds, Florence, it would make a bat of me. You are serious tonight," he added, looking into her eyes.

"Yes, I am." The sound of laughter came from the drawing room. "Yes, I am, and I must go in there to be pleased. Howard, do you believe that anything could separate us?"

"Really, you are beginning to distress me. I have never known what it was to live without you, and I couldn't know it. But cheer up, won't you? To-morrow we--"

"Yes, I will," she broke in. "It was only a shadow and it has passed. But I wonder where such shadows come from. Why do they come? Who has the ordering of them?"

As they were walking toward the door opening into the hall, William entered from the passage, smoking his pipe, his thin hair rumpled as if he had just emerged from a contest. Howard and Florence did not see him, and he called to them.

"I say, there, Howard, I thought you were going out."

The young man halted and looked back with a smile. "Don't you see me going out, Uncle Billy?"

"Now look here, young fellow!" exclaimed the old man in a rage, his hair seeming to stand up straighter, "I don't want to be Uncle Billied by you, and I won't have it, either. Your daddy's got it in for me lately, and I'll be hanged if I'm going to put up with it much longer. And Florence, you'd better speak to him about it. I want to give him every opportunity to mend his ways toward me, and you'd better caution him before it's too late. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Uncle William," she answered. "And I will speak to him."

"Well, see that you do. And, mind you, I wasn't certain whether it was on the tenth or the eleventh; I was willing to give either the benefit of the doubt; I--"

"That's all right, Uncle William," said Howard.

The old man glared at him. "It's not all right, sir, and you know it. But go ahead. I don't belong to the plot of this household, anyway. I'm only a side issue." Howard and Florence passed out, and he shouted after them. "Do you hear me? Only a side issue."

Just then Bodney came in. "You are a what, Uncle William?" he asked, looking about.

"I said a side issue."

"What's that?"

"If you haven't got sense enough to know, I haven't the indulgence to tell you."

"Where did you get that pipe, Uncle William?"

"I got it in the Rocky Mountains," said the old fellow.

"It must have come there about the time the mountains arrived. Whew!"

"Now, look here, George Bodney, don't you bring up the tail end of an entire evening of insult by whewing at my pipe. I won't stand it, do you hear?"

Bodney undoubtedly heard, but he did not reply; he went over to the desk and began to look about, moving papers, as if searching for something. "I left my knife here, somewhere," said he. "Must have a little more light." He turned up the gas drop light on the table, went back to the desk, and, pretending to find his knife, turned down the drop light lower than it had been before.

"There's no use to put out the light simply because you've found your knife," said William. "It may be to your advantage to have it dark, but I like to see. I haven't always lived in this soot and smoke; I have lived where I could see the sky from one year's end to another."

"I beg your pardon," said Bodney, "but how long do you expect to stay in this room?"

"Oh, don't pay any attention to me. I don't belong to the plot."

"What plot?" Bodney exclaimed, with a start.

"Why, the plot of this household--the general plot of the whole thing."

"Oh, yes, I see," said Bodney.

"I'm glad you do. And, here, just a minute. The Judge and I had a difference tonight."

"Not a serious one, I hope."

"Devilish serious. Wait a moment. I set out by admitting that I was not exactly certain whether it was on the tenth or the eleventh. But I settled it, finally, I think, on the eleventh. I--"

"Eleventh of what?"

"Of June, sixty-three. On that day, as I started to tell them--now, I want to be exact, and I'll tell you all about it." The old man sat down, crossed his legs, took a few puffs at his pipe, preliminaries to a long recital; but the young fellow, standing near, began to shift about in impatience. "I remember exactly what sort of a day it was. There had been a threat of rain, but the clouds--"

"Oh, I don't care anything about it."

"What!"

"I say, I don't care anything about it."

"The hell you don't! Why, you trifling rascal, I raised you; you owe almost your very existence to me. And now you tell me that you don't care anything about it. Go on out, then. You shan't hear it now, after your ingratitude." Bodney strode out, and the old man shouted after him, "I wouldn't tell you that story to save your life." Laughter came from the drawing room. William grunted contemptuously. "There's John telling his yarns. And that preacher--why, if I couldn't tell a better story than a preacher--" He broke off and got up with sudden energy. "But they've got to hear that story. They can't get away from it." And muttering, he walked out briskly.

Bodney stepped back into the room. He looked at the light, turned it lower, sat down and, leaning forward, covered his face with his hands. But he did not remain long in this position; he got up and went to the safe, put his hand upon it, snatched it away, put it back and stood there, gazing at the light. Then he went to the door and beckoned. Goyle, disguised as Howard, walked in with insolent coolness. In Bodney's room he had dressed himself, posing before the glass, arranging his bronze beard, clipping here and there, touching up his features with paint--and Bodney had stood by, dumb with astonishment. The dress suit, everything, was complete, and when he came out he imitated Howard's walk. Bodney could not help admiring the superb control he had of his nerves; but more than once he felt an impulse to kill him, particularly when, in response to the beckoning, he stepped into the office.

"If it fails, I shoot you," Bodney whispered.

"Rot. It can't fail. Don't I look like him?"

"Yes. You would deceive me--you--"

"Art, bold art," said Goyle. "A man ought to be willing to die for his art. Turn the light a little higher."

"No, it's high enough."

Goyle walked over leisurely and turned up the light. "That's better. We must give him a chance to see."

"Wait a moment," said Bodney, as Goyle took his position at the safe. "Wolf, I want to acknowledge myself the blackest scoundrel on the earth."

"Not necessary. Taken for granted. Go ahead."

Bodney turned to go, but hesitated at the hall door and seemed again to struggle with something that had him in its grasp. Goyle motioned, and said, "Go ahead, fool." Bodney passed into the hall, and Goyle began to turn the knob of the safe, holding his paper to catch the light. He heard the voice of Bodney. "It won't take long. I want you to help me--" The door swung. Goyle pulled open the drawer, and then followed three sharp strokes of the gong, just as loud laughter burst from the drawing room. Goyle jumped back. The Judge rushed in, with Bodney clinging to him. Goyle turned as if he had not seen the Judge and rushed from the room. Bodney struggled with the Judge, his hand over his mouth, and forced him down upon a chair. "Judge, father, not a word--for his mother's sake. You must freeze your heart for her sake." The old man dropped with a groan, Bodney bending over him.

*CHAPTER III.*

*THE NIGHT CAME BACK WITH A RUSH.*

Bodney led the Judge to his room on the second floor, where he left him almost in a state of collapse. He spoke of calling Mrs. Elbridge, but the old man shook his head, which Bodney knew he would do, and in a broken voice said that he wanted to be left alone. At the time when the Judge left the drawing room with Bodney, Bradley was bidding the family good-night, but lingered a moment longer to join the company in a laugh at William, who, having settled his date to his own satisfaction, had forgotten the point of the story.

Bodney's room was on the first floor, off the passage, and, going thither, he found Goyle sitting on the side of the bed, not as Howard, but as himself. The scoundrel declared that it had worked like a charm, but that the clang of the gong had prevented his getting any money. That, however, was a minor consideration. He needed money, it was true; he had not expected much, but even a little would have helped him greatly. A lower order of mind might have brooded over the disappointment, but his mind was exultant over the success of his art. He argued that if his impersonation of a son could deceive a father, he might bring forth a Hamlet to charm an audience.

"How is he?" Goyle asked, as Bodney stepped into the room.

"Don't talk to me, now," said Bodney, sitting down. He took up a newspaper and fanned himself. "For a time I wished that I had killed you."

"Yes? And now?"

"I wish that you had killed me. Tell me, are you a human being? I don't believe you are. I don't believe that any human being could have the influence over me that you have had--that you still have, you scoundrel. I wish I could stab you."

"Can't you?"

"No. My arm would fall, paralyzed. I used to scout the idea of a personal devil, but I believe in one now. He is sitting on my bed. He has compelled me to do something--"

"It worked like a charm, George; and now, old fellow, don't hold a grudge against me. I have taught you more than you ever learned before; I have shown you that a man can do almost anything--that men are but children to be deluded by trickery. There, for instance, is a judge, a man who was set up to pass upon the actions of men. What did I do? Convinced him that his own son is a robber. Was that right? Perhaps. Why should such a man have been a judge? What wrongs may not his shortsightedness have caused him to commit? We can't tell. He may have committed a thousand unconscious crimes. But an unconscious crime may be just as bad as a conscious one. He has been sitting above other men. Now let him suffer; it is due him. And his son! What does he care for you or me? He reads, and thinks that he is wise. He has stuffed himself with the echo of feeble minds; and now let him wallow in his wisdom. Look at me. Are you sorry for what we have done? Look at me."

Bodney made an effort to get up, but his strength seemed to fail him, and he remained as he was, gazing at Goyle. "George," Goyle continued, his eyes glittering, "I was the hope of a father, a better man than Judge Elbridge. But he was ruined by honest men and died of a broken heart. That was all right; it was a part of life's infamous plan. Everything is all right---a part of the plan. My friends called me a genius; they believed that I was to astonish the world, and I believed it. I bent myself to study, but one day the bubble burst and I felt then that nothing amounted to anything--that all was a fraud. The world is the enemy of every man. Every man is the natural enemy of every other man. Evil has always triumphed and always will. The churches meet to reform their creeds. After a while they must revise out God--another bubble, constantly bursting. Then, why should there be a conscience? That's the point I want to make. Why should you and I suffer on account of anything we have done? Everything you see will soon pass away. Nothing is the only thing eternal. Then, let us make the most of our opportunities for animal enjoyment. The animal is the only substance. Intellectuality is a shadow. Are you sorry for what I have done?"

He fixed his glittering eyes upon Bodney, and, gazing at him, Bodney answered: "No, I am not. It was marked out for us, and I don't suppose we could help it; but somehow--somehow, I wish that I had killed you."

"What for? to cut off a few days of animalism--to make of me an eternal nothing? That wouldn't have done any good."

"It would have prevented the misery--"

Goyle stopped him with a snap of his fingers. "For how long? For a minute. It will all pass away. Be cheerful, now. We haven't any money as a reward of our enterprise and art, but we have let the life blood out of all suspicion attaching to us. Let us go to bed."

"You go to bed. I will lie on the floor."

"No use to put yourself out, George. I'll lie on the floor."

"No," said Bodney, and Goyle let him have his way. The hours passed, Bodney lying in a restless stupor, but Goyle slept. Sunlight poured into the room and Bodney got up. He went to the window and stood to cool his face in the fresh air. He looked back at the bed. Goyle was still sleeping, breathing gently. The horror of the night came in a rush. And there was the cause of it, sleeping in peace. Bodney snatched open a drawer and seized a razor. Goyle turned over, with his face toward the window.

"Ah, up? What time is it, George?"

Bodney dropped the razor and sat down. "It is time to get up," he said. Goyle got out of bed and began to exercise himself by striking out with his fists. He had passed, he said, a night of delicious rest, with not a dream to disturb him. He whistled merrily as he dressed himself. Bodney stood with his elbow resting on the marble top of the "bureau," his face yellow and haggard. Glancing down into the half closed drawer, he saw the razor and shuddered at the sight of it. With his left hand he felt of his right arm, gripping it from shoulder down to wrist as if in some strange manner it had been deprived of strength. Goyle moved toward him and he pushed against the drawer to close it, but the keen eye of the "artist" fell upon the open razor, and glittered like the eye of a snake. But he showed no sign of fear or even of resentment.

"I will stay to breakfast with you," he said, putting his hand on Bodney's shoulder.

"I wish you wouldn't," Bodney feebly replied.

"Oh, no you don't. Come, brace up now. My part of the work is done, but yours is just beginning. I have saved you from suspicion, but you must keep yourself saved. That's right, brighten up. Now you are beginning to look like yourself. Why, nothing so very bad has been done. We have enacted a little drama, that's all. Such things, or things on a par with them, are enacted every day. The newspapers are full of stranger things. We haven't hired a 'castle' and entered upon a career of wholesale murder; we haven't cut up a woman and made her into sausage."

The voice of William was heard in the passage, scolding a housemaid for disturbing his papers. The old man tapped on the door and Goyle opened it.

"Ah, you here?" said the old man, stepping into the room. "You'd better go in to breakfast. Well, sir, I never saw anything like it in my life. I can't put a thing down and find it where I left it. George, what's the matter with you this morning?"

"Nothing at all, sir. I had a headache and didn't sleep very well. That's all. Is the Judge up yet?"

"I believe not. And when he does get up I want to have a talk with him. I'll be hanged if he didn't get that preacher to laughing at me last night--laughing at me right here in my own house. I can stand a good deal, but when a preacher laughs at me, why things have gone too far."

Goyle smiled upon him. "But, Mr. Elbridge, a preacher means quite as little when he laughs as when he talks."