"Well, if I don't I know it, of course, but--"
"Oh, you be confound. You are all the time--"
"Go ahead with your story."
"I'll do nothing of the sort, sir; I'll do nothing of the sort. You are
all the time trying to put it on me, and I'll do nothing of the sort;
and the first thing you know, I'll pick up and leave here. I was simply
going to tell of something that took place on the--Mr. Bradley, did I
say the tenth?"
The preacher had not been able to keep a straight face, but with
reasonable gravity he managed to say that the tenth was the final date
agreed upon. "By all parties concerned," said the Judge, puffing at his
cigar. William scratched his head. "But, after all, it must have been
on the eleventh."
"Knocks out my favorite again," the Judge muttered, but William took no
notice of the interruption. It is the duty of a family joke to be
forbearing.
"Ab Tollivar came to me on that day," William began, "and said that
there was to be--"
"On the tenth--came to you on the tenth?" the Judge broke in.
"I said the eleventh."
"William, I beg your pardon," the Judge replied, "but you said the
tenth, raising my hopes, for you well know my predilection for that day.
In many ways a man may be pardoned for recklessness, but not in the
matter of a date. The exact time of an occurrence is almost as
important as the occurrence itself. History would lose much of its
value if the dates--"
"John, when you get into one of your tantrums you are enough to make a
snow man melt himself with an oath. You'd make a dog swear."
"Not before me when I was on the bench. But your story. Ab Tollivar
came to you and--"
"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.
[Illustration: Goyle began to turn the knob of the safe.]
*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."
This pleased the old man, and he chuckled, his fat sides shaking.
Bodney smiled, too, and Goyle gave him a look of approval and it
appeared to brighten him. He dressed himself hastily, turning
occasionally to heed a remark made by Goyle or the old man, and when he
stepped out of the room to go with them to breakfast, his face was not
so yellow, nor his countenance so haggard.
*CHAPTER IV.*
*STOOD LOOKING AT THEM.*
About two hours later Florence was sitting alone in the drawing room
when Howard entered. She asked him if he had seen his father that
morning. He sat down on a sofa beside her and said, after a moment's
reflection:
"Yes, I have seen him? Why did you ask?"
She seemed worried and did not immediately answer him. He repeated his
question. "Because he spoke of you at breakfast," she said. "He didn't
appear at all well--sat staring about, and--"
"That explains it," said Howard.
"Explains what?" she asked.
"His treatment of me."
"Treatment of you? Has anything gone wrong?"
"Yes, in the office, just now. When I went in he jumped up from his
desk, threw down a hand full of papers, and stared at me--muttered,
seemed to struggle with himself, sat down, and asked me to leave him
alone. He never acted that way toward me before. I'm afraid he's ill.
Why, he's the most jovial man in the world, and--I'm worried. I don't
understand it. If he's sick, why didn't he say so?"
"I don't know, but don't let it worry you, dear," she said.
"But it does, Florence, to be turned upon in that way. What did he say
about me at the table this morning? He surely wasn't angry because I
didn't get up in time for breakfast."
"Surely not. He didn't say anything, only asked where you were, and
kept staring at the place where you sit."
"And is that the reason you asked me if I had seen him?"
"Yes, that and the fact that he didn't appear to be well."
"I don't understand it. Why, he has joked with me all my life, sick or
well. It hurts me." And, after a slight pause, he added: "I wonder if
he turned on George, too."
"It wouldn't seem so, for as he was going out of the breakfast room he
put his hand on brother's shoulder and leaned on him."
Bodney came in at that moment, and, looking about, asked if they had
seen Goyle. As he was going out, Howard called him.
"Oh, George, just a moment. Have you noticed anything strange about
father this morning?"
And Bodney was master of himself when he answered: "Nothing much. Only
he didn't seem to be as well as usual. It will pass off. I wonder
where that fellow is?" He strode out, and they heard him talking to
Goyle in the hall.
"Put his hand on George's shoulder and leaned on him," Howard mused,
aloud. "Then he is not well. George knows it and doesn't want to
distress me by telling me. Did he sit up late?"
"No. Mr. Bradley had to go early, and just as he was taking his leave
brother stepped in and asked your father to help him with an important
matter--some abstract of title, or something of the sort, and they went
out and he didn't come back. I don't want to distress you, but your
mother said that he walked the floor nearly all night."
"Did she? And George knows more than he is willing to tell. But why do
they try to shield me? It would be all right to shield mother if
anything were wrong, but if there's a burden, I ought to help bear it."
She besought him not to be worried, assuring him that nothing had gone
very far wrong and that everything would come right. The clearness and
the strength of her mind, her individuality, her strength of character,
always had a quick influence upon him, and he threw off the heavier part
of his worry and they talked of other matters, of the reception which he
had attended the night before. He repeated a part of a stupid address
delivered by a prominent man, and they laughed at it, he declaring that
nearly all men, no matter how prominent or bright, were usually dull at
a reception. And, after a time, she asked: "What sort of a man is Mr.
Goyle?"
"Oh, he's all right, I suppose; smart, full of odd conceits. I don't
know him very well. He comes into the down-town office quite
frequently, but he rarely has much to say to me. George seems to be
devoted to him."
Florence shook her head, deploring the intimacy. "I don't like him," she
said. "And Agnes says she hates him. She snaps him up every time he
speaks to her." She looked at Howard, and saw that his worry was
returning upon him. She put the hair back from his forehead,
affection's most instinctive by-play, and said that he must not be
downcast at a mere nothing, a passing whim on the part of his father.
"And it was only a whim," she added.
"But whims make an atmosphere," he replied.
"Not ours, Howard--not yours, not mine. Love makes our atmosphere."
"Yes," he said, putting his arm about her, "our breath of life.
Florence, last night you were depressed, and now I am heavy." Their
heads, bent forward, touched each other. "And your love is dearer to me
now than ever before." Their faces were turned from the hall door. The
Judge silently entered, and, seeing them, started toward them, making
motions with his hands as if he would tear them apart. But Howard,
after a brief pause, spoke again, and the old man halted, gazing at
them. "Florence, you asked me, last night, if anything could separate
us, and now I ask you that same question. Could anything part us?"
"No," she said, "not man, not woman, nothing but God, and he has bound
us together."
"With silken cords woven in the loom of eternity," he replied; and the
Judge wheeled about, and, with a sob, was gone, unseen.
"What was that?" Florence asked, looking round. "It sounded like a sob."
"We were not listening for sobs and should not have heard them," he
replied. "It wasn't anything."
William came in, clearing his throat. "Don't let me disturb you," he
said, as they got up. "I don't belong to the plot at all." He began to
look about. "I left my pipe somewhere."
"I don't think it's here, Uncle William," said Howard. "You surely
wouldn't leave it here; and, besides, I don't hear it."
There came a sort of explosion, and upon it was borne the words, "What's
that? You don't hear it? You don't? Now what have I ever done to you
to deserve such an insult? Ha! What have I done?"
"Why, nothing at all, Uncle William."
"Then why do you want to insult me? Haven't I been your slave ever
since I came here? Haven't I passed sleepless nights devising things
for your good? You can't deny it, and yet, at the first opportunity,
you turn upon me with an insult."
"Why, Uncle Billy," said Florence, "he wouldn't insult you. He was only
joking."
Howard assured him that he meant no insult, whereupon the old man said:
"All right, but I know a joke as well as anybody. I have joked with
some of the best of 'em in my time, I'll tell you that. But it's no
joke when you come talking about not hearing a man's pipe. It's a
reflection on his cleanliness--it means that his pipe is stronger than a
gentleman's pipe ought to be. But I want to tell you, sir, that it
isn't. It's as sweet as a pie."
Howard said that he knew the import of such an accusation. "But," he
added, "I was in hopes that it was strong, not to cast any reflection,
you understand, but to show my appreciation of what you have done for
me. I was going to give you that meerschaum of mine."
The old man's under jaw dropped. "Hah? Well, now, I do believe that it
has got to be just a little nippy; just a little, you understand."
"I wish it were stronger than that, Uncle Billy."
"You do? Howard, you have always been a good friend to me; our
relations have been most cordial and confidential, and I don't mind
telling you--to go no further, mind you--that my old pipe is as strong
as--as a red fox. Yes, sir, it's a positive fact. Er--where is your
pipe?"
"In my room. You may go and get it as soon as you like."
"All right, and I'm a thousand times obliged to you. Florence, did that
preacher go away so suddenly last night because I settled the fact that
it was on the tenth?"
"Oh, no, he left because he had an engagement."
"Well," drawled the old man, "I don't know about that. Why, confound
him, I've got a right to settle it as my memory dictates. Does he think
that I'm going to warp my recollection just for him?"
"What was it all about, Uncle Billy?" Howard asked.
"About a story I was going to tell."
"Did you tell it?"
"Did I tell it! Well, after a fashion; after they had badgered me.
Then I made a mess of it. How do you expect me to tell a story
when--look here, ain't you trying to put it on me? Hah, ain't you?"
"I don't know what you mean, Uncle William."
"Oh, you don't. The whole kit of you are devilish dull all at once."
"You surely don't include me," said Florence.
"No, not you, Florence, but all the men about the house. Why, I went up
to John, just a while ago, and I'll be hanged if he didn't snap at me
like a turtle--told me to get out of his office. Shall I tell you what
he said? He said that last night he went to hell and was still there.
There's something wrong with him, as sure as you live."
Howard turned away and began to walk up and down the room. "There it is
again," said he. "I no sooner convince myself that it might have been a
mere whim when something comes up to assure me that it is something
worse. And the look he gave me, Florence. It hurts me." He walked
toward the door. Florence asked him if he were going to his father. He
turned and stood for a moment in silence. "No, I am going down town. I
don't feel right. I am hurt. But don't say anything to him, please. I
am going to wait and see what comes of it. And please don't say
anything to mother." He took his leave, and Florence went to the window
and looked after him as he passed down the street. She spoke to
William. "I wonder what the trouble is," she said.
"I don't know," William replied, ruffling his brow, "but as for that
preacher--the first thing he knows, I won't let him come here. John has
insisted on his dropping in at any time, because he used to know his
father, but I'll attend to that. Why does a great, strong fellow as he
is want to throw away his time? Why doesn't he get to work?" He sat
down and, looking toward the piano, asked Florence to play something.
"I'd like a tune quick and high-stepping," he said. She told him that
she was in no humor. "In that event," he insisted, "you might play the
Maiden's Prayer."
"Not now, Uncle William. Here's Agnes. She'll play for you."
"No, I won't," said Agnes, coming into the room. Florence expected the
old fellow to snort his displeasure at so flat a refusal, but he did
not. He bowed to her and said: "Now, that's the way to talk. I like to
have a woman come right out and say what she means. Well," he added,
getting up, "I am not in your plot, anyway, so I'll bid you good
morning."
As soon as William was gone, Agnes went to the piano, seated herself on
the stool and began to ripple on the keys. "There are times when we
feel like dabbling in water but don't want to swim," she said.
"And you are dabbling now," Florence spoke up.
"Only dabbling. Oh, I forgot; your dressmaker is out there, and I came
in to tell you."
"I'm glad you didn't forget it entirely. Oh, and I must tell you
something. Brother says that Mr. Goyle is smitten with you."
Agnes, still rippling, turned half way round, sniffed and turned back.
"I hate him so hard that it's almost second cousin to love," she
declared.
"Don't let it be any closer kin, Agnes. There is always danger in a
first cousin."
Agnes, still rippling, sniffed contemptuously. "He's been following me
around all the morning. How I love to hate him."
The voice of Mrs. Elbridge was heard, calling Florence, who answered
that she was coming, but she halted long enough to say to Agnes,
mischievously, that she might learn to love him if she loved to hate
him. Both love and hate were kindred passions, with but a thin
partition between them. As she was going out, Agnes shouted after her
that, if she ever loved him she would hate herself, and then, just as
Goyle and Bodney entered the room, she added: "We tar and feather such
fellows in Quincy."
"You do what in Quincy?" Bodney asked.
And Agnes, without looking round, repeated: "Tar and feather such
fellows."
Goyle knew that she meant him, but instead of kindling resentment, her
words aroused in him an additional interest in her. He looked at her as
in the rhythmic sway of her graceful form, the nodding of her shapely
head, she kept time with a tune, half remembered, half improvised; and,
turning to Bodney, he asked in tones too low for the girl to hear: "Has
she got any money?"
"I think she has."
"Leave me alone with her."
"Do you want to snatch her purse?"
"Do you suppose I want a hair pin, a pearl button, a scrap of verse, and
a three-cornered piece of silk that no man can match? I mean, has she
got any money in her own name?"
"I haven't asked her, but I think she has."
"Then leave me alone with her."
Bodney stood looking at him. There was a continuous fascination in the
fellow's affrontery. "All right," he said, but quickly added: "We've
got to go down town, you know. I'll step into the office and wait till
she gets through with you. You may hypnotize me, but--"
Goyle cut him off with a gesture. "Nonsense! When she gets through with
me! Cool, coming from a man whose honor I have saved at the risk of my
own. But no cooler than the bullet you threatened me with."
"I wish I had given it to you," said Bodney.
"Do you? It's not too late, if you are bent on murder. But that's all
right," he broke off, with a wave of the hand. "Leave me alone with
her."
Bodney went out and Goyle sat down on a sofa, gazed at the girl, cleared
his throat, coughed; but she did not look round. "What are you playing?
May I ask?"
"You have asked," she replied, without looking round.
"But you haven't told me."
She left off playing, and slowly turned on the stool to face him. "A
tune they played in Quincy one night, when they tarred and feathered a
man," she said. And then, with a smile of sweet innocence, she added:
"You were never in Quincy, were you?"
"Well, I was never tarred and feathered there."
"Possibly an acknowledgment that you were never in the town. Oh,
somebody told me that you were once connected with opera."
"Then somebody flattered me. I couldn't sing in a chorus of scissors
grinders."
"A sort of Chinese opera, I inferred," she said.
"Well, that's about the only sort I could sing in. Chinese opera, eh?"
"Yes, that's what I inferred. It was something about Sing-Sing. Isn't
that Chinese?"
"Oh, it sounds like a joke," said he.
"And it wasn't?" she asked, in surprise. "Then it was serious opera
instead of comic. They call serious opera grand, I believe. And is
that the reason they call larceny grand--because it is serious?"
For a time he sat in a deep study of her. How different from the
nervous and impressionable weakling who had just left the room; and in
looking at her he felt that his eyes refused to glitter with a
snake-like charm; they were dull and flat, and he drew his hand across
them. "Do you know that I like you?" he said.
"Then I do not bring up an unpleasant recollection."
"No, a beautiful vision." And now he had more confidence in his eyes,
for he got up and moved toward her. She slipped off the stool and stood
looking at him.
"Won't you play something for me?" he asked.
"I don't want to play. I don't feel like it."
"Let your fingers dream over the keys."
"My hands aren't asleep." She moved off from him.
"You aren't afraid of me, are you?".
She looked him in the eye. "My grandmother killed a panther," she said.
He drew his hand across his eyes; he recalled what Bodney had
said--about her getting through with him. In the dictionary of slang
there is a word to fit him: the resources of his "gall" were boundless.
"Why don't you like me?" he asked. "Am I ugly in your sight? Do I look
like a villain?"
"If you looked more like a villain you'd be less dangerous."
"That's cruel. We may not see each other again. Won't you shake hands
with me?"
"What is the use of shaking hands with a stranger we are never to see
again," she said.
"But if we shake hands," he persisted, "we may not be strangers."
"No? Then, we'll not shake."
William strolled through the room, halting just long enough to assure
them that he was not trying to break into the plot. "He's a queer
duck," said Goyle.
"I wish there were more of his feather," she replied. "He can pass
through without stopping."
"And so could I but for you," he rejoined.