A SUMMONS OF THE NIGHT
There was a voice of moaning abroad in the night. It sounded as the rain
swept through the rocking trees and bent its spears against Judge
Maxwell's study windows; it sighed in his chimney like an old man
turning the ashes of spent dreams. It was an unkind night for one to be
abroad, for the rain seemed as penetrating as sorrow. Few passed upon
the street beneath the judge's windows where his dim light glowed.
Now and then the sound of hoofs and wheels rose above the wail of the
storm, sharp for a moment as it passed, quickly dimmed, quickly lost. It
was a night to be beneath one's own roof, beside one's own fire, feeling
the thankfulness for such plain comforts which one passes over in the
sunny days.
Judge Maxwell had a fire of hickory wood in his chimney, and a tall,
dark bottle on the small stand at his elbow. On the long table at his
other hand stood his shaded lamp, pouring its concentrated beams upon
his papers and books, leaving the corners of the room in shadows. The
judge sat with his glass in his hand, studying the fire.
All day, since the adjournment of court, the remarkable termination of
and disclosures in the case of State against Newbolt had been flowing
through his mind; all day, all evening, the white, strong face of the
defendant youth had stood before his eyes. He could not turn from it,
nor forget the appeal of those grave, gray eyes.
Never before, in his long and honorable life, had the judge been moved
by a case as this had moved him. There was nothing in all his rich
experience to equal it. In all his reading----
"_Hum-m-m_," said the judge, reflectively, remembering. He rose slowly
and went to the bookcase nearest the fire. He took down a leather-bound
volume and returned to his chair, where he sat with his legs crossed,
supporting the heavy book upon his knee. Reflectively he turned the
pages, reflectively he read, shaking his head when he had done.
"No, it is not a parallel," said he. "The matter involved has only a
remote similitude. I do not believe the annals of jurisprudence contain
another case to compare with that of our own Joe Newbolt."
The judge put the volume back in its place, pausing at the table as he
returned to his chair to turn down the flame of the lamp. It was too
bright for the judge's mood; it was inharmonious with the penitential
night. Almost like a voice, strident and in discord above the sobbing
music of an orchestra, thought the judge. The firelight was better for a
mood such as his.
One can see farther back by the soft glow of wood coals, leaning over
and looking into them, than under the gleam of the strongest lamp. Judge
Maxwell had a long vista behind him to review, and it seemed to him that
night that it was a picture with more shadow than gleam. This day's
events had set him upon the train of retrospection, of moody thought.
He had seen that boy, Joe Newbolt, leap out of the obscurity of his life
into the place of heroes, as he would have had his own son do, if he
could have kept him by his side and fashioned his life. But that boy was
gone; long years ago he had left him, and none had come after him to
stand in his place. His little, worn books, which he used to sprawl upon
the floor and read, were treasured there on their sacred shelf behind
the bookcase glass. The light had failed out of the eyes which had found
wonders in them, more than thirty years ago.
The lad's mother had followed him; nobody remained to the judge now out
of those days of his struggle and slow-mounting hope, save old Hiram,
his negro man, a family servitor since the times of slavery, and he was
trembling on the limb to fall.
Yes, that was the way that he would have had his own boy stand, true to
a trust, faithful in his honor, even under the beam of the gallows-tree;
stand as that lad Joe Newbolt had stood, unschooled though he was in
everything but that deep sense of duty devolving on one born free. Such
nobility was the peculiar birthright of the true American.
Scarcely behind Joe Newbolt stood that hitherto weak woman, Ollie Chase.
It called for courage to do what she had done. She had only to keep her
peace, and hide whatever pity she felt and pain she suffered on account
of the lad who stood ready to sacrifice his life for her, to proceed
upon her way clean in the eyes of men. She must have endured the
tortures of hidden fires through those weeks of uncertainty and
suspense, thought he.
Yes, Ollie Chase had her own nobility; the laurel was due her poor,
smirched brow, just as much as it was to Joe Newbolt's lofty forehead.
Contrition doubtless played its part in driving her to open confession,
and the pain of concealment must have been hard to bear. But there was
an underlying nobility in that woman's heart which had urged her on
stronger than all. It is a spark in the breast of even the most debased,
thought the judge, which abnegation and sacrifice often kindle into a
beautiful flame.
And there was Alice Price, with her fine intuition and sublime faith.
What a white soul that strong young woman had, said he; what a beautiful
and spotless heart. In that kiss which she had stooped to press on the
young widow's forehead she had wiped away the difference which Ollie's
sin had set between her and other women. It was an act of generosity
without ostentation, which he doubted whether Alice Price herself was
aware of in its farthest significance. It was the spontaneous act of
womanly sympathy and unconscious charity.
What Ollie Chase had said to them as they stood before her, Judge
Maxwell did not know, but what was written in their young faces as they
turned from watching her go, the whole world might have read--if it had
been as watchful and wise as he. What a fitting mate she was for that
young lion, Joe Newbolt, thought the judge; such a mate, indeed, as he
would have chosen for his own son if God had seen fit to give him that
transcendent joy.
Judge Maxwell found himself greatly concerned about Joe Newbolt's
future. He wondered what he would make of it if left to go about it in
his own way; what he would make of it if properly armed and encouraged.
He followed that speculation a long way down the future, building dimly,
but pleasantly, in his dream.
A ring sounded at the front door.
Judge Maxwell did not even withdraw his eyes from the fire. Some lawyer
over in one of the other two counties embraced in that circuit
telegraphing to ask some favor of delay, or favor of something else. To
ask a favor, certainly; lawyers never telegraphed to confer favors. Old
Hiram, dozing by the kitchen stove, would hear.
Presently old Hiram's shuffling feet sounded along the hall outside
Judge Maxwell's study door. The outer door opened and closed. Old Hiram
came into the judge's room, a candle in his hand.
"There's a man wishin' to see you, judge, sah," he announced.
Judge Maxwell started from his reverie. In the minute that had passed
between the ring at the door and the entry of Hiram, he had put the
visitor out of his head.
"A gentleman to see me, Hiram? Who is it?"
"No, sah; I don't think he's 'zactly a gentleman, sah. I don't know who
he is; he nevah give me no card, sah, but he's moughty sploshed and
blustery lookin'."
"Well--" the judge rose, halting his speech as if thinking of one thing
and speaking of another--"fetch him in here, Hiram."
"He's drippin' and drappin' like a leaky pail, sah," said Hiram, shaking
his cottony old head.
"No matter; he'll do no harm, Hiram."
Hiram brought the visitor in. The judge advanced to meet him.
The stranger's rubber coat glistened in the light, and the hat that he
carried in his hand trickled a little stream on the carpet as he crossed
the room. Old Hiram lingered at the door, holding his candle aloft.
The stranger stopped midway between Judge Maxwell and the door, as if
uncertain of his welcome, or conscious just at that moment of his
drenched and dripping state. He was a tall man and sparely built, and
his light-colored wet hair lay in little ringlets against his temples.
His mustache was short and stubby. His garments were splashed with mud,
as if he had come a long distance over rough roads. There was a haggard
and harried look in the man's eyes; he seemed at the highest pitch of
nervous tension. His lips were set in a grim line, as if he struggled to
hold something from utterance. His eyes were wide and wild.
"Judge Maxwell," he began, looking around him from side to side in quick
starts, "I must apologize to you for coming into your house in this
condition, and for this late call. But I'm here on important business; I
ask you to give me a few minutes of your time alone."
The judge nodded to Hiram, who closed the door after him.
"Take off that wet coat--give me your hat, and sit here," said the
judge, pulling a chair around to the fire.
The visitor drew off his rubber garment.
"Thank you, sir," said he. "My name is Morgan, and I've come over hell's
highway, as the man said, to get to Shelbyville tonight."
"Not Curtis Morgan?" said Judge Maxwell, lifting his eyes in startled
surprise, staying the stream of liquor that he was decanting into a
glass.
"Yes. You've heard my name before tonight, I see," the visitor said.
"Just so," replied the judge, in his studious way. "Drink this, unless
you have scruples?"
"It looks to me like a life-preserver to a drowning man," said Morgan,
with a glimmer of his every-day facetiousness. He drained the glass; the
judge motioned for him to sit down. Morgan did so, and stretched his wet
feet to the fire.
"I've got a story to tell you, Judge Maxwell," said he, again casting
his quick, almost fearful look around, "that will sound to you, maybe,
like a wild-eyed dream. But I want to tell you right now, it ain't no
dream--not by a million miles! I wish it was," he added, with a serious
twist of the head.
"Go on," said the judge.
"I've hurried here, Judge Maxwell, to do what I can in the name of
justice and humanity," Morgan said. "That boy, Joe Newbolt, on trial
here before you for the murder of old man Chase, is innocent. That boy
is telling the truth, Judge, and I'll stake my neck on that. I've got a
story to tell you that will clear up all he's holding back, and I'll
tell it, if I swing for it!"
Morgan was greatly agitated. He stopped there, looking earnestly into
the judge's face.
"Why have you waited so long?" asked the judge, sternly.
Morgan leaned over, clutching at the judge's arm.
"Am I too late--is it over--have they convicted him?" he asked.
"Yes, it's over," nodded the judge, studying Morgan's face narrowly.
"Merciful heavens!" said Morgan, springing to his feet, looking around
for his coat and hat. "We must stop this thing before it's too late,
Judge--I tell you we must stop it! Isn't there some way--have they
convicted Joe?"
"Sit down, Morgan, and calm yourself. Hold your feet out to the blaze
and dry them," the judge admonished, kindly.
"What's happened?" asked Morgan, wildly, not heeding the command.
"You shall hear it all in time," promised the judge. "Sit down here and
tell me what you've been doing all these weeks. Where have you been?"
"Judge, I've been over in Saint Joe selling books," said Morgan, "and
I'll tell you the truth, Judge, I never intended to come back here." He
turned and faced the judge, leaning forward earnestly, his face white.
He lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. "But I had to come back--I was
sent back by--by a voice!"
"Just so," nodded Judge Maxwell.
"You may think it's a pipe-dream, Judge, but it ain't. It's the solemn
truth, if I ever told it in my life. I intended to let Joe Newbolt go on
and carry what he'd picked up, and then when he was out of the way in
the pen, or worse, maybe, I intended to hunt Ollie up and marry her. I
didn't want that business that Joe Newbolt's been keeping back let out
on her, don't you see, Judge? It concerns her and me, Judge; it ain't
the kind of a story a man's folks would want told around about his wife,
you understand?"
The judge nodded.
"All right," said Morgan, wiping his forehead, which was beaded with
sweat, "Last night along about ten o'clock I was in my room reading the
account in the paper of how Joe had refused on the stand yesterday to
tell anything, and how a young woman had stood up in the court-room and
backed him up and encouraged him in his stand. I was reading along
comfortable and all right, when I seemed to hear somebody call me by my
name.
"I tell you I seemed to hear it, for there wasn't a soul in that room
but myself, Judge. But that voice seemed to sound as close to my ear as
if it come out of a telephone. And it was a woman's voice, too, believe
me or not, Judge!"
"Yes?" said the judge, encouragingly, still studying Morgan's face,
curiously.
"Yes, sir. She repeated my name, 'Curtis Morgan,' just that way. And
then that voice seemed to say to me, 'Come to Shelbyville; start now,
start now!'
"Say, I got out of my chair, all in a cold sweat, for I thought it was a
call, and I was slated to pass in my checks right there. I looked under
everything, back of everything in that room, and opened the door and
took a dive down the hall, thinkin' maybe some swift guy was tryin' to
put one over. Nobody there. As empty, Judge, I tell you, as the pa'm of
my hand! But it's no stall about that voice. I heard it, as plain as I
ever heard my mother call me, or the teacher speak to me in school.
"I stood there holding onto the back of my chair, my legs as weak under
me as if I'd stayed in swimmin' too long. I didn't think anything about
going to Shelbyville, or anywhere else, but hell, I guess, for a minute
or two. I tell you, Judge, I thought it was a call!"
Morgan was sweating again in the recollection of that terrible
experience. He wiped his face, and looked around the room, listened as
the rain splashed against the window, and the wind bent the branches of
the great trees beside the wall.
"Well?" said Judge Maxwell, leaning forward in his turn, waiting for
Morgan's next word.
"I tell you, Judge, I kept hearing that thing in my ear that way, every
little while, till I threw some things in my grip and started for the
depot. There wasn't any train out last night that'd fetch me within
fifty miles of here. I went back to my room and went to bed. But it
didn't let up on me. Off and on, all night, just about the time I'd doze
off a little, I'd seem to hear that voice. I went to the depot this
morning, and caught the eight o'clock train out. I'd 'a' made it in here
at two this afternoon if it hadn't been for a washout between here and
the junction that put the trains on this branch out of service.
"I took a rig and I started to drive over. I got caught in the rain and
lost the road. I've been miles out of my way, and used up three horses,
but I was bound to come. And I'm here to take my medicine."
"I see," said the judge. "Well, Morgan, I think it was the voice of
conscience that you heard, but you're no more to blame than any of us, I
suppose, because you failed to recognize it. Few of us pay enough
attention to it to let it bother us that way."
"Believe me or not, it wasn't any pipe-dream!" said Morgan, so earnestly
that the flippancy of his slangy speech did not seem out of place. "It
was a woman's voice, but it wasn't the voice of any woman in this
world!"
"It's a strange experience," said the judge.
"You can call it that!" shuddered Morgan, expressive of the inadequacy
of the words. "Anyhow, I don't want to hear it again, and I'm here to
take my medicine, and go to the pen if I've got to, Judge."
Judge Maxwell put out his hand, impatiently.
"Don't try to make yourself out a martyr, Morgan," said he. "You
knew--and you know--very well that you hadn't done anything for which
you could be punished, at least not by a prison sentence."
"Well, I don't know," said Morgan, twisting his head argumentatively, as
if to imply that there was more behind his villainy than the judge
supposed, "but I thought when a feller got to foolin' with another man's
wife----"
"Oh, pshaw!" cut in the judge. "You're thinking of it as it should be,
not as it is. The thing that you're guilty of, let me tell you for your
future guidance and peace, is only a misdemeanor in this state, not a
felony. In a case like this it ought to be a capital offense. You've
shown that there's something in you by coming back to take your
medicine, as you say, and voice or no voice, Morgan, I'm going to give
you credit for that."
"If the devil ever rode a man!" said Morgan.
"No, it was far from that," reproved the judge.
"It got me goin', Judge," said Morgan, scaring up a little jerky laugh,
"and it got me goin' _right_! It stuck to me till I got on that train
and headed for this town, and I'll hear the ring of it in my ear to my
last--what's that?"
Morgan started to his feet, pale and shaking.
"It was the wind," said the judge.
"Well, I'm here, anyhow, and I came fast as I could," said Morgan,
appealingly. "Do you think it'll stick to me, and keep it up?"
"Why should it?" said the judge. "You've done your duty, even though
whipped to it."
"If the devil ever whipped a man!" breathed Morgan, "I'm that man."
Judge Maxwell had doubted the man's sanity at first, when he began to
talk about the voice. Now he only marveled at this thing, so elusive of
all human science to explain, or human philosophy to define. He recalled
an experience of a friend--one who had been for many years court
stenographer--who, in a distant city, had been impelled to seize his
pencil on a certain night, and write a message which he seemed to hear
plainly dictated into his ear by one in Shelbyville. As soon as the post
could carry a message to the man whose voice the stenographer had heard,
he was asked about the telepathic communication. He at once mailed to
the man who had taken it down, more than two thousand miles away, the
identical message, word for word. It had been an experiment, he said.
Perhaps something like that had occurred in Morgan's case, or perhaps
the man merely had dreamed, a recurring dream such as everybody has
experienced, and the strong impression of his vision had haunted him,
and driven him to the act. And perhaps someone of vigorous intellect and
strong will had commanded him. Perhaps--no matter. It was done.
Morgan was there, and the record of justice in the case of state against
Newbolt was about to be made final and complete.
"You say it's all over, Judge," spoke Morgan. "What did they do with
Joe?"
"What happened in court today," said Judge Maxwell, rising to his feet,
"you would have heard if you had been there. But as you were not, it is
not for me to relate. That is the privilege of another, as the matter of
your condemnation or acquittal is in other hands than mine."
"I know I acted like a dog," admitted Morgan, sincerely contrite, "both
to Ollie and to Joe. But I'm here to take my medicine, Judge. I thought
a lot of that little woman, and I'd 'a' made a lady of her, too. That
was it. Judge; that was at the bottom of this whole business. Ollie and
I planned to skip out together, and Joe put his foot in the mess and
upset it. That's what the fuss between him and old Isom was over, you
can put that down in your book, Judge. I've got it all lined out, and I
can tell you just----"
"Never mind; I think I understand. You'd have made a lady of her, would
you? But that was when she was clean, and unsuspected in the eyes of the
world. How far would your heroism go, Morgan, if you met her in the
street tonight, bespattered with public scorn, bedraggled with public
contempt, crushed by the discovery of your mutual sin against that old
man, Isom Chase? Would you take her to your heart then, Morgan? Would
you be man enough to step out into the storm of scorn, and shoulder your
part of the load like a man?"
"If I found her in the lowest ditch I'd take her up, Judge, and I'd
marry her--if she'd have me then!" said Morgan, earnestly. "When a man's
careless and free, Judge, he sees things one way; when he comes up on a
short rope like this, he sees them another."
"You are right, Morgan," said the judge.
He walked the length of the room, hands clasped behind his back, his
head bent in thought. When he came back to the fire he stood a little
while before Morgan, looking at him with intent directness, like a
physician sounding for a baffling vagary which lies hidden in the
brain.
There was a question in his face which Morgan could not grasp. It gave
him a feeling of impending trouble. He shifted uneasily in his chair.
"Stay here until I return," commanded the judge. "I shall not be long."
"I'm here to take my medicine," reiterated Morgan, weakly. "I wouldn't
leave if the road was open to me, Judge."
Judge Maxwell went to the door, calling for Hiram. Hiram was not far
away. His candle was still burning; he came bobbing along the hall with
it held high so he could look under it, after the manner of one who had
been using candles all his life.
"My overcoat, Hiram, and my neck shawl," ordered the judge. He turned to
Morgan, who was standing on the hearth.
"Wait for me, I'll not be long away."
"It's a blusterin' and a blowin' mighty bad, Judge. I'll get my
coat----"
"No, no, Hiram; there's something for you to do here. Watch that man;
don't let him leave."
"He ain't gwine a-leave, Judge, sah," said Hiram with calm significance.
Hiram held up the great frieze coat, and the judge plunged his arms into
it. Then the old negro adjusted the shawl about his master's shoulders,
and tucked the ends of it inside the coat, buttoning that garment over
them, to shield the judge's neck from the driving rain.
The judge turned back into the room to throw another stick on the fire.
The lamp was burning low; he reached over to turn up the wick. The flame
jumped, faltered, went out.
"Hah, I've turned it out, Morgan. Well, no matter. You'll not need more
light than the fire throws. Make yourself comfortable, Morgan."
With a word to Hiram, the judge opened the door and stepped out into the
night.
On the pavement the wind met him rudely, and the rain drove its cold
arrows against his kind old face. Wonderful are the ways of Providence,
thought Judge Maxwell, bending his head to bring his broad hat-brim to
shield his face, and complete are the accounts of justice when it is
given that men may see them down to the final word.
The wind laid hold of the judge's coat, and tugged at it like a vicious
dog; it raged in the gaunt trees, and split in long sighs upon the
gable-ends and eaves. There was nobody abroad. For Shelbyville the hour
was late; Judge Maxwell had the street to himself as he held on his
way.
Past the court-house he fought the wind, and a square beyond that. There
he turned down a small street, where the force of the blast was broken,
looking narrowly about him to right and left at the fronts of houses as
he passed.
Simeon Harrison, Ollie Chase's father, lately had given over his
unprofitable struggle with the soil. He had taken a house near the
Methodist church and gone into the business of teaming. He hauled the
merchants' goods up from the railroad station, and moved such
inhabitants of Shelbyville as once in a while made a change from one
abode to another.
Sim had come to Shelbyville with a plan for setting up a general livery
business, in which ambition he had been encouraged by Ollie's marriage
to Isom Chase, to whom he looked, remotely, for financial backing. But
that had turned out a lean and unprofitable dream.
Since Isom's death Ollie had returned to live with her parents, and
Sim's prospects had brightened. He had put a big sign in front of his
house, upon which he had listed the many services which he stood ready
to perform for mankind, in consideration of payment therefor. They
ranged from moving trunks to cleaning cisterns, and, by grace of all of
them, Sim was doing very well.
When Sim Harrison heard of his daughter's public confession of shameful
conduct with her book-agent boarder, he was a highly scornful man. He
scorned her for her weakness in yielding to what he termed the
"dally-faddle" of the book-agent, and he doubly scorned her for
repudiating her former testimony. The moral side of the matter was
obscure to him; it made no appeal.
His sense of personal pride and family honor was not touched by his
daughter's confession of shame, any more than his soul was moved to
tenderness and warmth for her honest rescue of Joe Newbolt from his
overhanging peril. He was voluble in his declarations that they would
"put the screws" to Ollie on the charge of perjury. Sim would have kept
his own mouth sealed under like circumstances, and it was beyond him to
understand why his daughter had less discretion than her parent. So he
bore down on the solemn declaration that she stood face to face with a
prison term for perjury.
Sim had made so much of this that Ollie and her mother were watching
that night out in fear and trembling, sitting huddled together in a
little room with the peak of the roof in the ceiling, a lamp burning
between them on the stand. Their arms lay listlessly in their laps, they
turned their heads in quick starts at the sound of every footfall on the
board walk, or when the wind swung the loose-jointed gate and flung it
against its anchorings. They were waiting for the sheriff to come and
carry Ollie away to jail.
In front of Sim Harrison's house there was a little porch, not much
bigger than a hand held slantingly against its weathered side, and in
the shadow of it one who had approached unheard by the anxious watchers
through the blustering night, stood fumbling for the handle of a bell.
But Sim Harrison's door was bald of a bell handle, as it was bare of
paint, and now a summons sounded on its thin panel, and went roaring
through the house like a blow on a drum.
Mrs. Harrison looked meaningly at Ollie; Ollie nodded, understandingly.
The summons for which they had waited had come. The older woman rose in
resigned determination, went below and opened the door.
"It is Judge Maxwell," said the dark figure which stood large and
fearful in Mrs. Harrison's sight. "I have come to see Mrs. Chase."
"Yes, sir; I'll call her," said the trembling woman.
Ollie had heard from the top of the stairs. She was descending in the
darkness, softly. She spoke as her mother turned from the door.
"I was expecting you--some of you," said she.
"Very well, then," said Judge Maxwell, wondering if that mysterious
voice had worked another miracle. "Get your wraps and come with me."
Mrs. Harrison began to groan and wail. Couldn't they let the poor child
stay there till morning, under her own mother's roof? It was a wild and
terrible night, and Lord knew the poor, beaten, bruised, and weary bird
would not fly away!
"Save your tears, madam, until they are needed," said the judge, not
feeling that he was called upon to explain the purpose of his visit to
her.
"I'm ready to go," announced Ollie, hooded and cloaked in the door.
Sim Harrison was stirring about overhead. He came to the top of the
stairs with a lamp in his hand, and wanted to know what the rumpus was
about.
"It's Judge Maxwell--he's come for Ollie!" said his wife, in a
despairing wail.
"I knowed it, I knowed it!" declared Sim, with fatalistic resignation,
above which there was perhaps a slight note of triumph in seeing his own
prediction so speedily fulfilled.
To Harrison and his wife there was no distinction between the executive
and judicial branches of the law. Judge or sheriff, it was all one to
them, each being equally terrible in their eyes.
"When can she come home, Judge, when can she come back?" appealed Mrs.
Harrison, in anguished pleading.
"It rests with her," returned the judge.
He gave Ollie his arm, and they passed together in silence up the
street. They had proceeded a square before the judge spoke.
"I am calling you on an unusual mission, Mrs. Chase," he said, "but I
did not know a better way than this to go about what I felt it my duty
to do."
"Yes, sir," said she. He could feel her tremble as she lightly touched
his arm.
They passed the court-house. There was a light in the sheriff's office,
but they did not turn in there, and a sigh for that temporary respite,
at least, escaped her. The judge spoke again.
"You left the court-room today before I had a chance to speak to you,
Mrs. Chase. I wanted to tell you how much I admired your courage in
coming forward with the statement that cleared away the doubt and
tangles from Joe Newbolt's case. You deserve a great deal of credit,
which I am certain the public will not withhold. You are a brave little
woman, Ollie Chase."
There it was again! Twice in a day she had heard it, from eminent
sources each time. The world was not a bleak desert, as she had thought,
but a place of kindness and of gentle hearts.
"I'm glad you don't blame me," she faltered, not knowing what to make of
this unexpected turn in the night's adventure.
"A brave little woman!" repeated the judge feelingly. "And I want you to
know that I respect and admire you for what you have done."
Ollie was silent, but her heart was shouting, leaping, and bounding
again in light freedom, as it had lifted that morning when Alice Price
had spoken to her in her despair. At last, she said, with earnestness:
"I promise you I'll be a good woman, too, from now on, Judge Maxwell,
and I'm thankful to you for your kind words."
"We turn in here--this is my door," said the judge.
Mystified, wondering what the next development of this strange excursion
into the night would be, but satisfied in her mind that it meant no ill
for her now, Ollie waited while the judge found the keyhole, for which
he groped in the dark.
"And the matter of the will was all disposed of by the probate judge
today, I hear," said the judge, his hand on the door.
"Yes, sir."
"Then your life is all before you, to make of it what you will," said
he, placing his hand on her shoulder, as she stood with him in the dim
hall. He opened the study door. The wood on the grate was blazing
brightly. Ollie saw someone standing before it, bending slightly forward
in the pose of expectation. He was tall and of familiar figure, and the
firelight was playing in the tossed curls of his short, fair hair.
"In there," said the judge, "if you care to go."
Ollie did not stir. Her feet felt rooted to the floor in the wonder and
doubt of this strange occurrence.
"Ollie!" cried the man at the hearthstone, calling her name imploringly.
He came forward, holding out pleading hands.
She stood a moment, as if gathering herself to a resolution. A sob rose
in her throat, and broke from her lips transformed into a trembling,
sharp, glad cry. It was as if she had cast the clot of sorrow from her
heart. Then she passed into the room and met him.
Judge Maxwell closed the door.