The old judge had a cane with an ivory head. He could never think at
his best until he was leaning slightly on this stick and smoothing the
white top with slow movements of his hands. It was also to him a kind
of narcotic. If by any chance he mislaid it, he grew at once very
irritable, and was likely to speak sharply to his sister, whose mental
incapacity he had patiently endured for thirty years in the old
mansion on Ontario Street. She was not at all aware of her brother's
opinion of her endowments, and so it might be said that the judge had
successfully dissembled for more than a quarter of a century, only
risking the truth at the times when his cane was lost.
On a particular day the judge sat in his armchair on the porch. The
sunshine sprinkled through the lilac-bushes and poured great coins on
the boards. The sparrows disputed in the trees that lined the
pavements. The judge mused deeply, while his hands gently caressed the
ivory head of his cane.
Finally he arose and entered the house, his brow still furrowed in a
thoughtful frown. His stick thumped solemnly in regular beats. On the
second floor he entered a room where Dr. Trescott was working about
the bedside of Henry Johnson. The bandages on the negro's head allowed
only one thing to appear, an eye, which unwinkingly stared at the
judge. The later spoke to Trescott on the condition of the patient.
Afterward he evidently had something further to say, but he seemed to
be kept from it by the scrutiny of the unwinking eye, at which he
furtively glanced from time to time.
When Jimmie Trescott was sufficiently recovered, his mother had taken
him to pay a visit to his grandparents in Connecticut. The doctor had
remained to take care of his patients, but as a matter of truth he
spent most of his time at Judge Hagenthorpe's house, where lay Henry
Johnson. Here he slept and ate almost every meal in the long nights
and days of his vigil.
At dinner, and away from the magic of the unwinking eye, the judge
said, suddenly, "Trescott, do you think it is--" As Trescott paused
expectantly, the judge fingered his knife. He said, thoughtfully, "No
one wants to advance such ideas, but somehow I think that that poor
fellow ought to die."
There was in Trescott's face at once a look of recognition, as if in
this tangent of the judge he saw an old problem. He merely sighed and
answered, "Who knows?" The words were spoken in a deep tone that gave
them an elusive kind of significance.
The judge retreated to the cold manner of the bench. "Perhaps we may
not talk with propriety of this kind of action, but I am induced to
say that you are performing a questionable charity in preserving this
negro's life. As near as I can understand, he will hereafter be a
monster, a perfect monster, and probably with an affected brain. No
man can observe you as I have observed you and not know that it was a
matter of conscience with you, but I am afraid, my friend, that it is
one of the blunders of virtue." The judge had delivered his views with
his habitual oratory. The last three words he spoke with a particular
emphasis, as if the phrase was his discovery.