Part 8

*WANTED TO SEE HIS SON.*

Howard had shared his father's sentiment with regard to the old office, for then the sky was clear, but now a cloud had come the atmosphere was changed. And on his way home to dinner, after a day spent without progress, he formed a resolve to tell the old gentleman that he needed a fresher and a brisker air than that blown about the ancient temple of lore. It ought not to hurt him now since he had begun to look upon his son with an eye so dark with censure. Even if his affection had been withdrawn his blood-interest must surely still remain, the young man mused; even though sentiment were dead, there must remain alive a desire to see him prosper, and to prosper in that old place was impossible. He believed that his father was losing his mind; years of dry opinion, of unyielding fact and the dead weight of precedent growing heavier, smothered his mental life.

The household, with the exception of the Judge, was at dinner, and when Howard entered the dining room his mother arose hastily and came to meet him. "Your father wants to see you in the office," she said, and putting her hand on his arm, she added: "I don't know what he wants, but no matter what it is, please bear with him--don't say anything to annoy him."

"Has anything happened?" Howard asked.

"Something, but I don't know what. Someone called, I heard loud talking in the office, and after the caller had gone, your father came out and said that he wanted to see you as soon as you arrived. Be gentle with him, dear."

The old gentleman was sitting at his desk when Howard entered the office. He got up and for a time stood looking at the young man with no word of explanation. "Well, sir," he said, after a time, "what will you do next?"

"What have I done now?"

"No quibbling, sir. You know what you have done."

"I pledge you my honor I do not."

"Pledge me your what! Pledge me your old clothes, but not your honor."

"You wanted to see me, so mother says, and now I should like to know why."

"I suppose that you are so innocent that you can't even guess. Or is it that you are so forgetful of your deeds that you cannot remember? Why did you send that old fool out here?"

"Send an old fool out here! I didn't send anyone."

The old man took a step toward him with his finger uplifted. His eyes were full of anger and his finger shook, a willow in the wind. "How can you deny it? You sent old Dr. Risbin, the morphine eater, out here to see me."

"Oh, did he come out here? But I swear I did not send him. In fact, I told him not to come."

"Ah, and is that the reason he came--because you told him not to? He was never here before in his life, and why should he say that you sent him?"

"Because he is a poor old liar, I suppose. I admit that I saw him in his office and--"

"A gradual acknowledgment is better than no acknowledgment at all. Why did you see him in his office, or why did you speak of me?"

"Father, if you'll only be patient with me I will tell you. Your bearing toward me has been distressful. I was afraid that your mind--"

"Enough of that. My mind is sounder, sir, than yours will ever be. But, suppose something were wrong. Is he the physician to consult? Why, his mind has been dead for years. Why did you consult him if it were not in contempt of me? I ask you why?"

"I was standing in the door of our office and happened to notice his sign just across the hall; and I thought that as he knew you well, I would speak to him. I soon saw that he didn't know what he was talking about, and when he suggested that he ought to see you, I told him no, and changed the subject. That's my offense, and I beg your pardon."

"I will try to believe you," said the Judge, sitting down. "Your office is down town. This one is mine."

"Yes, sir, and I will not intrude. I wouldn't have come in but you wanted--"

The Judge waved his hand. "Our business has been transacted."

"Yours has, but I have something to say. I don't want to occupy that musty old den any longer. It doesn't make any difference to me if there are a thousand javelins of wit sticking in the walls, or a thousand ghosts of oratory floating in the air, I can't make a living so long as I stay in it. I don't want to be of the past, but of the present. Your success was not a past but a present, and my present is as valuable to me as yours was to you."

"You are at liberty to get out of that office as soon as you like. But before you go, put up some sort of emblem expressive of your contempt of all its memories. Stuff out a suit of old clothes with straw, a scarecrow of the past, set it at the desk and call it--me."

"Please don't talk to me that way. I don't mean any disrespect--I want to establish myself on a modern footing. You know that Florence and I--"

"Don't speak of her."

"Why not? She is to be my wife."

"Not with my consent."

"Your consent is desirable, but not absolutely necessary. I don't mean this in impudence; I mean it merely to show my--our determination. I don't know why you should oppose our marriage, and I have no idea as to what extent you will oppose it, but I wish to say that no extreme will have any effect. You say that you are not ill; you swear that your mind is not affected, and yet you refuse to tell me the cause of your change toward me. I must have done something, either consciously or unconsciously, and now again I beg of you to tell me what it is."

The old man leaned forward with his eyes bent upon the floor. "I have seen great actors, but this--go away, Howard. Leave me alone."

"Am I ever to know, sir?"

The old man pointed toward the door, and Howard walked slowly out. His mother stood in the hall. Her eyes were tearful, and taking his arm she held it as if she would say something, but liberated him, motioned him away, and went into the office. The Judge got up, forcing a change upon his countenance, smiled at her, took her hand and led her to a chair. "Now, don't be worried," said he. "I merely reprimanded Howard, as I had a right to do, for sending an old fool, who calls himself a doctor, out here to see me. That's all."

"But what did you mean by calling him an actor? What has he done that he should be acting now?"

"Nothing--nothing at all, I assure you."

"You said he was acting," she persisted.

"Perhaps I did, but I didn't mean it. Oh, yes, acting as if he didn't care for the memories of the old office."

"But, dear, something has come between you and Howard. What is it?"

"Between us, my dear? Surely not. We don't agree on all points; he has his opinions and I have mine; but there is no serious difference between us. Come, I will show you. He and I will eat dinner together."

He led her to the dining room, where Howard sat moodily looking at the table. He glanced up, and the Judge waved his hand with something of his old-time graciousness. "Any callers today, Howard?" he asked, sitting down.

"Goyle, whom I am beginning not to like, and Mr. Bradley."

"Whom you cannot help but like. A good man, conscientious and yet not creed-bound."

"He is building up a great church," said Mrs. Elbridge. "It is almost impossible to get a seat."

"Ah, I don't attend as regularly as I should," remarked the Judge, "but I am going to mend my ways. Howard, shall we go together soon?"

"I shall be delighted, sir."

"Then let us appoint an early day."

The father and the son laughed with each other, and to the mother it was as if new strings, to replace broken ones, had been put upon an old guitar, and she was happy merely to listen; but soon she was called away, attendant upon some duty, and then a darkness fell upon the old man's countenance. "Enough of this," he said. And there was more than surprise in the look which Howard gave him--there was grief in it. "Then your good humor was assumed," he replied.

"We may assume good humor as we assume honesty--for policy," the Judge rejoined.

"I swear I don't understand you."

"Then don't strive to do so when your mother is present. At such times, take me as you find me."

"My pleasure just now was real. It is a grief to know that yours was not. I was in hopes that our difference, whatever it is, for I don't know, was at an end. You led me to believe so."

"Lay no store by what you suppose I lead you to believe. When our difference shall reach an end, if such a thing is possible, I will tell you."

"Then you acknowledge a difference."

"I have not denied it."

"And you will not tell what it is?"

"Now, you are mocking me. Ah, come in, my dear." Mrs. Elbridge had returned. "Yes, we will go to hear Bradley preach. And I warrant I can remember more of the sermon than you."

"Mr. Bradley is here now," said Mrs. Elbridge.

"Ah, is he? Did you tell him I would be in pretty soon?"

"He has come to see Agnes, I think. He asked for her."

"Ah, the sly dog. Well, he couldn't ask for a better girl. Are you going, Howard?"

"Yes, sir, to take a walk with Florence, if she cares to go."

The Judge frowned, but his wife did not notice it. Howard did, however, and was sorry that he spoke of his intention, but he had no opportunity to apologize, if indeed he felt an inclination to do so. It was a sorrow to feel that his father was set against him, but to know that he was trying to influence the girl was more than a sorrow--it was a grief hardened with anger. He found Florence and they went out together, walking southward.

"How soft the air is," she said.

"Nature is breathing low."

They walked on in silence beneath the cottonwoods and elms. Laughter, the buzz of talk and tunes softly hummed came from door-steps and porticos where families and visitors were gathered, to the disgust of Astors and flunkies from over the sea.

"Florence," said Howard, "before I came home this evening I was determined to move out of that old building down town, and to get an office in a modern building. But now I have decided upon something else."

"To remain there out of respect for your father and his memories?"

"No. To get away from this town--out West, to build a home for you. I hope you don't object."

"Object. I am pleased. I think it is the very wisest thing you could do. And as soon as you are ready for me, I will go."

He took her hand and held it till, passing under a lamp, near a group of persons on a flight of steps, he gently let it fall. "Yes, it is the wisest thing I can do. The law is altogether different from what it was when father was in his prime--the practice of it, I mean--and I don't believe I could ever build up here. Oh, I might. The fact is, I don't want to practice here. I am disheartened. The idea of a man, at his age, turning against--do you know what he holds against me, Florence?"

"Howard, you must not ask me."

"Must not ask you? Then you know."

"Please don't ask me."

They were in the light, amid laughter and the humming of tunes, and he waited till they reached a place where there was no one to hear, and then he said: "If you know and love me, it would be unnatural not to tell me."

"Howard, Peter may have denied his Lord, martyrs may have denied their religion, but you can't deny my love."

"No, I can't; but how can you keep from me a secret that concerns me so vitally? Do you suppose I could hold back anything from you?"

"Not if your mother were dead and you had taken an oath upon her memory?"

"Not if God were dead and I had sworn--"

"Howard, you must not talk that way."

He was holding her hand and he felt the ripples of her agitation. "I think I know your secret," he said. "You have cause to believe that his mind is giving way and you don't want to distress me by confessing it--have been sworn to silence, as if it could be kept hidden from me."

She admitted that she did not believe that his mind was sound, and he accepted it as the secret which she had at first held back, but her conscience arose against the deception of leaving him so completely in the dark. "Howard, you have often said in your joking way that I have the honor of a man."

"Yes, the honor of the Roman famed for honor. But honor can be cool, and I need something warmer, now--love. I am, as you know, deeply distressed at father's condition; it has changed nearly all my plans--every plan, in fact, except the one great plan--our plan. Mother begs me to be patient. But for what end, if there is to be no improvement in his treatment of me? I took a hint from Uncle William, not intended for me, that there has been insanity in the family. That's a comforting thought, now, isn't it? Why do you tremble so?"

"Because I believe that there is truth in Uncle William's hint."

"But it should not have any effect upon our plans--our marriage."

"I would marry you, Howard, if you were a maniac."

They were in the dark, and he put his arm about her. "Then, let the whole world go insane," he said.

The soft air murmured among the leaves of the cottonwood. A band of happy children danced about an organ grinder in the street. A fraudulent newsboy cried a murder in Indiana Avenue, and from afar came as if in echo, "All about the murder on Prairie Avenue."

"Howard, knowing me as you do, and supposing that I had not told all I know, and I were to ask you to wait, what would you say?"

"Not knowing you so well I would say, 'out with it,' but knowing you, I would say, 'wait.' But what do you mean?"

"I mean to wait four weeks and no longer."

"Now you begin to mystify me. But we'll not think about it. I wonder what's the trouble with George. I never saw a fellow change so. I believe that fellow Goyle is having a bad influence on him. There is something uncanny about that chap. Did you ever notice his eyes? They have a sort of a draw, like a nerve. Have you noticed it?"

"I have noticed that I don't like him. He looks like a professional spiritualist."

"I guess he is in one sense--in slate writing--guess he has most everything put down on the slate."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Has everything charged that he can. He's a fraud, no doubt."

"Agnes says so."

"Oh, well, what Agnes says couldn't be taken as evidence. She sees a man and has a sort of flutter. If the flutter's pleasant the man's all right; if it isn't, he's all wrong."

"But there might be intuition in a flutter," she said.

"Yes, or prejudice. But George has always been a good judge of men. He has excellent business sense--has invested in lots and can make a fair profit on them at any time he cares to sell. Shall we turn back here?"

Agnes and the preacher sat in the drawing room, she flouncing about on a sofa, and he dignified on a straight-back chair. It is rather remarkable that a preacher is more often attracted by a mischief-loving girl than by a sedate maiden; and this may account for the truth that ministers' sons are sometimes so full of that quality known, impiously, as the devil. In the early days of the English church, when the meek parson, not permitted to hope that he might one day chase a fox or drink deep with the bishop, and who was forced to retire to the servants' hall when the ale and the cheese cakes came on, had cause in secret to offer up thanks that not more than two of his sons were pirates on the high seas. And Bradley sat there watching a cotillion of mischief dancing in the eyes of the girl.

"You have never been connected with any church, have you?"

"Once," she replied, with a graceful flounce. "But I danced out."

"Danced out, did you say?"

"Yes. I got religion in the fall and lost it in the winter--by going to a ball and dancing."

"Why," said the preacher, slowly, patting his knee, "that did not cause you to lose it."

"Well, that's what they said, anyway. And I know I cried after I got home because my religion was gone."

"It is a crime to teach such rubbish."

"Then you don't think I lost it?"

"Surely not."

"Then I must have it yet," she cried, clapping her hands.

"Miss Agnes, your purity is of itself a religion."

"I don't know about that. I am wicked sometimes--I say hateful things."

"But there is no bitterness in your soul."

"I don't know, but I think there is, sometimes. I know once I wished that a woman was dead; but she was the meanest thing you ever saw. And she did die not long after that and I was scared nearly to death--and I prayed and sent flowers to the funeral. Wasn't that wicked?"

The preacher admitted that it was wayward, but he could not find it in his inflamed heart to call her wicked. She was too engaging, too handsome to be wicked. Nature could not so defame herself, he thought, though he knew that there was many a beautiful flower without perfume. But while settled love condemns, love springing into life forgives. "Wayward," said the preacher, "Perhaps thoughtless would be a better word."

"No, it wasn't thoughtless, because I was thinking hard all the time. Don't you get awfully tired studying up something to preach about?"

He smiled upon her. "All work in time becomes laborious, and that is why congregations desire young men--they want freshness. An old man may continue to be fresh, but his brain must be wonderful and his soul must be a garden of flowers. The wisdom of the old man often offends the young and tires the middle-aged; human nature demands entertainment, and the preacher who entertains while he instructs is the one who makes the most friends and the one who indeed does the most good. The unpoetic preacher is doomed; the gospel itself is a poem. The practical man may not read poetry, may not understand it; but he likes it in a sermon, for it breathes the gentleness and the purity of Christ. But poetry cannot be laborious, cannot be dry with studied wisdom, and therefore, when a preacher becomes a great scholar, he forgets his simple poetry and the people begin to forget him."

"My!" exclaimed the girl, "what a sermon you have preached. And it's true, too, I think. I know we had an old man at our church--one of the best old men you ever saw--but they got tired of him. He--he couldn't hold anybody. Even the old men gaped and yawned. He was giving them dry creed. Well, a young man came along and preached for us. And it was like spring time coming in the winter. He made us laugh and cry. People like to cry--it makes them laugh so much better afterward. Well, the old man had to go."

"And after a time, the young man, grown old, will have to go. We must keep this life fresh; we must look for incentives to freshness. A preacher ought to be the most genial of men. And his wife ought to be genial; indeed, innocent mischief would not ill become her."

He looked at her, but she did not look at him. She was leaning back with her eyes half closed. "I hear Mr. Howard and Agnes coming," she said.

*CHAPTER XIV.*

*A PROPOSITION TO MAKE.*

Two weeks passed, and during the time Howard busied himself with the writing of letters to numerous real-estate men and postmasters in the West. Sometimes he would put down his pen to muse over what Florence had said, that she might tell him something after the lapse of four weeks, and more than once had he spoken to her with regard to what seemed to him as her vague information, but she had told him to wait. He knew her well enough not to persist. One of his earliest memories was a certain sort of stubbornness which formed a part of her character. She was gentle and lovable, but strong. He fancied that had she been reared in a different sphere of life she would have become a leader in the Salvation Army.

Bodney came to the office every day, but was so restless that he rarely remained long. Once he came to the door, saw the preacher within, and stole away without speaking. And one afternoon Howard heard him and Goyle tossing high words in the hall, but a few moments later they went out, arm in arm. One morning the Judge came in. "I didn't know but you had left this place," he said, standing near the door and looking about to search for the old memories, Howard mused.

"No, sir. The fact is I may not move to any other office in this town."

"In this town!" the old man repeated. "What other town is there?" To a Chicago man that ought to have established his complete soundness of mind. "I can give you credit for all sorts of--let me say, weakness--but I cannot see why you should be so foolish as to leave this city."

"You came at an early day," said Howard. "I might better my prospects by going to a town that is still in its early day."

"Um, and come back broke. You haven't stuffed that old suit of clothes yet."

"There's time enough for that, sir?"

"What! Then you really intend to do it?"

"Didn't you command me?"

"None of your banter." The Judge walked over to the old iron safe, with the names Elbridge & Bodney slowly rusting into the invisible past, put his hand upon it and stood there with his head bowed. From the street came the sharp clang of a fireman's gong, and the old man sprang back.

"There is a fire somewhere," said Howard.

"There is, sir; it is here," the Judge replied, putting his hand on his breast. Yes, it was now only too evident that his mind was diseased. The young man went to him, took his hand, looked into his eyes. "I beg of you to believe that my love for you is as strong as ever. I don't know how to humble myself, for you have taught me independence, but I would get down on my knees to you if--" The old man threw his hand from him and hastened from the room. In the hall he encountered the opium eating doctor. "Why, my dear Judge, I am surprised to see you out."

"And you will be still more surprised if you don't get out of my way."

"But won't you stop a while for old-time's sake?"

"I will do nothing, sir, but attend to my own affairs, and I request you to do the same."

"Of course, yes, of course. Well, drop in when you are passing."

The old doctor stepped up to the door of Howard's office. The young man stood confronting him. "I have thought over what you said the other day concerning your father, and have come to the conclusion that you are right," said the doctor. "There is something wrong with him."

"But I wish you wouldn't irritate him. And, by the way, why did you tell him that I told you to go out to the house?"

"Didn't you request me to go?"

"I certainly did not."

"Well, really, I misunderstood you. By the way, someone told me that you intended to give up this office. It is a better one than mine, having the advantage of a better view, and I don't know but I might take it."

"I am not going to give it up yet a while."

Bodney came into the hall and the old doctor shuffled into his own den. "I guess he wants to poison someone," said Bodney, nodding toward the doctor's office. "Anybody with you?" he asked.

"No," Howard answered, as they both stepped into the office. "Why?"

"Oh, I am getting so I don't want to see anybody. I feel as if I were a thousand years old," he added, dropping upon a chair.

"You don't look well, that's a fact. What seems to be the trouble?"

"I don't know. Liver, perhaps. Goyle been here today?"

"No, and I don't want him to come again. Now, look here, George, I believe that fellow has a bad influence on you. You are not the same man since you became so intimate with him. What's his business? What does he do?"

"I'd rather not talk about him, Howard."

"Then his influence must be bad. Turn him over to me the next--"

"No," Bodney quickly interposed. "Let everything go along as it is till the proper time and then--then I will attend to him. I am not in a position now to do anything, but one of these days I am going to tell you something that will open your eyes to the perfidy of man--man close to you. Don't say anything more now; I am crushed. I am--"