A fire in the air-tight stove in the corner had taken the early morning
chill from the room and been permitted to burn out, now that the morning
sun came in warm through the dusty windows, but the room was still close
and cloudy with wood smoke. At a battered, roll-topped desk in the
sunniest window Mr. Theodore Burr was struggling with the eccentricities
of an ancient Remington, and looking superior to it and to all his
surroundings, but the Judge was nowhere to be seen.
Mr. Burr was a very large, very pink young man, with blond hair which
would have looked too good to be true on a woman, and near-set,
green-blue eyes which managed to look vacant and aggressive at the same
time. He was wearing a turquoise-blue tie which accentuated their
effectiveness, and he occupied himself ostentatiously with the Remington
for quite three minutes before he turned his most vacant and aggressive
look upon his client.
"Well, Donovan?" he said.
Mr. Burr's manner was as patronizing as Mr. Ward's with the
friendliness left out, but his client was not chilled by it.
"Theodore, where's the Judge?" he asked.
"Mr. Burr." The pink young man turned two shades pinker as he made the
correction. "The Judge is engaged."
"I don't believe it."
Mr. Burr laughed unpleasantly and held up his hand. From the other side
of a door labelled private--misleadingly, for the Judge's little
sanctum, where half the town had the privilege of crowding in and
tipping back chairs and smoking, was the nearest approach to a clubroom
that the town afforded, now that the Hiawatha Club was no more--muffled
voices were faintly audible.
"You can talk to me," said Mr. Burr.
"I can, and I can go away and come back when he's not engaged. He said
he'd see me."
"He's changed his mind. He don't want to see you. I know all about your
case."
"You've learned a lot in six months."
"Talk like that won't get you anything, Donovan, here or anywhere else,"
remarked Mr. Burr, reasonably, if somewhat offensively. Admitting it,
his client dropped into one of the Judge's big office chairs, and sat
there, fingering his cap as he talked, and looking suddenly beaten and
tired.
"You're right, Theodore. Well, what's all this you know about my case?"
"Mike Brady sends you here begging when he's ashamed to come himself.
It's hard on you, Neil."
"My uncle's too busy to come. Is that all you know?"
"I know what you want to-day, and you can't have it."
"What do I want?"
Mr. Burr's manner had become alarmingly official, but his client
continued to smile at him, and to fold and unfold his cap methodically.
"An extension of time on your uncle's mortgage. The principal is due the
first of next month. You've kept the Judge waiting twice for the
interest, the security is insufficient, the bank holds a first mortgage
on the house, and for fourteen months your uncle has made no payment to
the Judge whatever."
"Don't rub it in, Theodore."
"This is no laughing matter. Business is business," stated the junior
partner importantly.
"More like charity, with the Judge, but Uncle isn't holding him up for
much this time. Uncle's getting on his feet. The Judge never expected
him to, and I didn't, but the automobiles help. Maggie served tea before
she went to Ward's, and he's going on with it. His luck has turned.
He's got the money to pay this year's interest and half the back
interest that's due, but he wants to keep it and put it into
repairs--the roof wants shingling, and if we could fix up the storeroom
for a place to serve tea and ice-cream we could double trade. Then, next
year----"
"We've heard too much about next year, Donovan."
"Don't get tragic, Theodore. This is a new proposition. I'll go into
figures with the Judge and prove it to him--don't want to waste them on
you. But he won't be sending good money after bad this time, like he's
done too many times. I'm as glad for him as I am for Uncle."
"It can't be done."
"Nonsense, Theodore. I won't wait to see the Judge now, but you tell
him----"
"It don't make any difference what I tell him. The Judge has made up his
mind, and he won't change it. You can take it from me as well as him.
You won't get another dollar of his money, and you won't get another
month's extension of time. We're done with you."
"I almost believe you mean that, Theodore."
"As I said, the house is insufficient security, but for the sake of the
dignity of the firm we must protect ourselves----"
"I believe you mean it, and the Judge gave you authority to say it."
"We must go through the form of protecting ourselves and----"
His client laughed. "You don't mean the Judge wants to take over the
house. That's 'Way Down East stuff. If money's tight with him, we'll pay
the interest and manage some way, though I don't see how. But the house
would be no good to him if he took it, and he wouldn't take it if it
was. I know the Judge. Don't let your imagination get away with you,
Theodore."
"I'm sorry for you, Donovan."
"You think he's going to take it?"
"I know he is."
"You mean that," his client decided slowly, "and you've got the Judge's
authority for it, too."
"Take it quietly. It's the best way," urged the junior partner
helpfully.
"I understand that's your motto, Theodore," said his client, and
proceeded to take his advice, sitting quite still in the Judge's big
chair, and fixing a clear-seeing but unappreciative gaze upon the
immaculate folds of Mr. Burr's turquoise-blue tie. He took the advice
too literally. The silence grew oppressive and sinister, and as if he
found it so, Mr. Burr broke into a monologue, disjointed, but made up
of irreproachable sentiments.
"This is hard on your uncle, Neil, and it's hard on you, but it may be
the best thing in the end. He's been hiding behind you too long. A
business that can't stand on its own feet deserves to fail. He can start
new and start clean. The Judge has been a good friend to you----"
"Don't explain him to me. You don't own him, whoever else does,"
interrupted the Judge's protege softly.
"What do you mean? If you don't think you're getting a square deal, say
so."
"Do you want me to weep on your shoulder, Theodore?"
"The Judge is your friend, and," Mr. Burr added handsomely, "I'm your
friend, too."
His client arose briskly, as if encouraged by this. "Theodore, you don't
want to tell me what's back of your turning me down?" he asked. "No, I
thought not. Well----"
"I'm your friend," repeated Mr. Burr, generously if irrelevantly, and
this time without effect. His client had crossed the room without
another glance at him, and had his hand on the knob of the Judge's
office door. His manner still had the composure which Mr. Burr had
advocated, but his face was very pale, ominously pale, and his brown
eyes were changed and bright, dangerously bright. To imaginative eyes
like Mr. Burr's he must have looked suddenly taller.
Mr. Burr was facing an unmistakable crisis, with no time to wonder how
long it had been forming, or why. He hurried after the boy and caught
him fiercely if ineffectively by the arm.
"You can't go in there," stated Mr. Burr arbitrarily, all logic
deserting him. "You can't. You don't know----"
"Oh, I'm not going to knife the Judge," his client explained kindly.
"I'm only going to find out what's back of this."
"Take it quietly," was the ill-chosen sentiment which suggested itself
to Mr. Burr. Neil Donovan swung round angrily, and paused to reply to
it, with fires which the somewhat negative though offensive personality
of the pink young man could never have kindled alight in his brown eyes.
"Quietly? There's been too much of that in this town. I'm sick of it.
The only friend I've got who hasn't got one foot in the gutter goes back
on me for no reason at all, the first time I ask a favour of him that
don't amount to picking his pockets. The only big man in this rotten
town who's halfway straight since Everard turned the town rotten begins
to act like he wasn't straight. What's back of it? I'm going to know.
Get out of my way, Theodore."
"You don't know who's in there."
"I don't care. I'm going to know." Disposing of the hovering and anxious
intervention of Mr. Burr, and throwing the door open, he slammed it in
the pink young man's perturbed face, and stepped alone out of the
sunshine into the Judge's dim little inner office.
The Judge's friendly littered little room was not so inviting in working
hours as it was in the hospitable hours of late afternoon. It was like a
woman seen in evening dress by daylight. But the boy who had invaded it
so hotly unmasked no conspiracy here. The men at the table near the one
window, with a pile of official but entirely innocent looking papers
between them, had every right to be there. They were the Judge and
Colonel Everard.
The great man looked quite undisturbed by the boy's invasion, glancing
up at him indifferently from the papers that he was turning over with
his finely moulded, delicately used hands; he even looked mildly amused,
but the boy turned to him first instinctively, and not to the Judge, who
was peering at him with troubled and kindly eyes over the top of his
glasses.
"I've got to speak to the Judge. I'm sorry."
He stammered out his half-apology awkwardly enough, but the smouldering
fires were still alight in his brown eyes, tragic fires of cowed and
rebellious youth. The great man regarded him indifferently for a minute
and then turned rather ostentatiously to his papers again.
"Judge, I've got to speak to you alone."
"You can't just now, son."
"I've got to."
"Why?"
The Judge's kind, drawling voice was not quite as usual, and his blue,
near-sighted eyes were not; they were wistful and deprecating, and
rather tired, a beaten man's eyes, eyes with an irresistible appeal to
the race that is vowed to lost causes, this boy's race. The boy stepped
instinctively closer.
"I don't blame you, sir, but I've got to understand this and know what's
behind it."
"Better go home before you say anything you'll be sorry for, Neil."
"Why did you go back on me?"
"You're taking a sentimental attitude about a business matter. It's
natural enough that you should. I'm sorry for you, son."
"Why----"
The Judge drew himself up a shade straighter in his chair, and met the
boy's insistent challenge with sudden dignity, kindly but judicial,
peculiarly his own, but his flashes of it were not very frequent now.
"Neil," he said deliberately, "I've got nothing to say to you alone.
I've got nothing to say to you at all that Mr. Burr hasn't said. Is that
quite clear to you?"
It was entirely clear. The Judge had left no room for uncertainty or
argument, and the boy did not attempt to argue or even to answer. He
stood looking uncertainly down at the Judge, as if for the moment he
could not see anything in the room quite distinctly, the Judge's face,
with its near-sighted blue eyes and red-gold beard and thinning hair, or
Colonel Everard's clear-cut profile.
"Better go," said the Judge gently.
"I'd better go," the boy repeated mechanically, but he did not move.
Colonel Everard put down his papers deliberately, and favoured him with
a glance, amused and surprised, as if he had not expected to find him
still in the room, and was prepared to forget at once that he was there;
a disconcerting sort of glance, but the boy's brown eyes met it
gallantly, and cleared as they looked. They grew bright and defiant
again, with a little laugh in the depths of them. The ghost of a laugh,
too, lurked in the boy's low voice somewhere.
"You're right, Judge. I'll go. I'm wasting my time here," he said,
"asking you who's back of what you've done to me--when I know. I won't
ask you again, but I'll ask you, I'll ask you both, who's back of
everything that's crooked or wrong in this town? Little or big, he's
back of it all; straight back of it, or well back of it, hiding his face
and pulling the wires. He's to blame for it all, for he's made the town
what it is.
"He's got his hand on the neck of the town, and got hold of it tighter,
gradual, so nobody saw it and knocked it off; tighter and tighter,
squeezing the life out. He never made a gift to the town with one hand
that he didn't take it back with the other. What the town gets without
him giving it, he won't let it keep. The whole town's got his stamp on
it, grafting and lying and putting up a front. The whole town's afraid
of him. The Judge here, that's the best man in town, don't dare call his
soul his own. Me, I'm afraid of him, too, and the only reason I dare
stand up and say to his face what's said behind his back is because I've
got nothing to lose. It's him, there----"
"Don't, son," muttered the Judge tardily, unregarded, but Colonel
Everard listened courteously, with a faint, amused smile growing rather
stiff on his thin lips.
"Him, that's too good to speak to me or look at me, sitting there
grinning, and reading fine print, making out not to care, he's back of
it all--him, Everard."
The two men, who had heard him out, did not interrupt him now. It was
only a passionate jumble of boyish words they had listened to, but
behind it, vibrating in his tense voice, was something bigger than he
could frame words to express, something that commanded silence; pain
forcing its way into speech, long repression broken at last. The dignity
of it was about him still, though his brown eyes flashed no more
defiance, and he was only a shabby and hopeless boy walking uncertainly
to the office door, and fumbling with the handle.
"I'll go out this way," he said. "I've had enough of Theodore. And I've
had enough of this place. I'll say good morning, gentlemen."
In a prosaic and too often unsatisfactory world, which is not the stage,
no curtain drops to relieve you of the embarrassment of thinking what to
say next after a record speech; you have to step out of the limelight,
and walk somewhere else. Neil Donovan, emerging from the ancient
building which contained Judge Saxon's office into Post-office Square
after a brief interval of struggling successfully for self-control in a
dusty corridor little suited to such struggles, and not even ensuring
the privacy which is wrongly believed to be necessary for them, had one
more appointment to keep. He was late for it already. He glanced at the
town clock and started off hurriedly to keep it.
Back of Court-house Hill another street, starting parallel to Court
Street, rapidly loses its sense of direction and its original character
of a business street, wavers to right and left, past a scatter of
discouraged looking houses, and finally slants off in the general
direction of the woods at the edge of the town, and the abortive,
sparsely wooded hill known to generations of picnickers--not the elite
of the town, but humbler, more rowdy picnickers--as Mountain Rock.
The street never reaches it, but loses itself in a grubby tangle of
smaller streets, thickly set with small houses, densely and untidily
populated, the section known at first derisively and later in good faith
as Paddy Lane. Through the intricate geography of this quarter Colonel
Everard's only openly declared enemy might have been seen making a hasty
and expert way ten minutes later; quickly and directly as it permitted
him to, he approached the base of the hill.
Disregarding more public and usual ways of ascent, he struck straight
across a stubbly field that lay behind a row of peculiarly forlorn and
tumbledown houses into a path so narrow that it was hard to see until
you were actually looking down it, between the twin birches that marked
the entrance. He followed it to the base of the cliff itself. The belt
of stunted birches and dusty-looking alders that skirted the cliff was
broken by an occasional scraggly pine. The boy stopped under one of
them, leaned against the decaying trunk, produced a letter, and read it.
It was only a pencilled scrawl of a letter, on the roughest of copy
paper, and so crumpled that he must have been quite familiar with it,
but he read it intently.
"Neil," it ran, "I'll meet you Saturday, on top of Mountain Rock,
same time and place. I shan't see you till then. I don't want to.
You frightened me last night. I don't like you lately. Be nice to
me Saturday. JUDITH."
Only a pencilled scrawl, but he knew every word of it by heart, and of
the burst of excited speech in the Judge's office nothing remained in
his mind but the general impression that he had made a fool of himself
there. Perhaps he was too familiar with Judith's letter, for the sting
he had found there at first was gone from the words. He looked at them
dully.
"I can't stand much more," he said aloud.
He said it lifelessly, and with no defiance in his eyes, stating only a
wearisome fact. He had seen the Colonel's face through a kind of red
mist in the Judge's office, and felt reckless and strong. He did not
feel like a hero now. He was tired.
He would hardly have cared just now if you had told him that back in
Judge Saxon's office two men who had not moved from their chairs since
he left them, and who would not move until several vital points were
settled, were discussing something he would not have believed them
capable of discussing at such length and with so much feeling--the
fortunes of the Donovan family.
He did not care just now for the little sights and sounds of spring that
were all around him, the cluster of arbutus leaves at his feet, the
faint, nestling bird noises, sweeter than song, and the stir and rustle
of tiny, unclassified sounds that were signs of the pulse of spring
beating everywhere, of change and growth going on whether human beings
perceived or denied it.
"I can't stand any more," said the boy.
Up the cliff to his right, strewn with pine needles that were brown-gold
in the sun, a steep and tiny trail led the way to the top of the hill
and his rendezvous. Now the boy crushed Judith's letter into his pocket,
turned to the trail with a sigh, and began to climb.