"Nature's. She gives me a tonic whenever I look at you."
She laughed at this, and she said: "I am woman enough to like that sort
of talk, but I don't like you."
"You like my talk, but don't like me. Why this discrepancy? Why don't
you like me?"
"Oh, I don't know. You give me the creeps."
"You are very frank."
"Oh, the creeps would make anybody frank."
Bodney appeared at the door and cleared his throat to attract attention,
and he was bold enough to ask her if she had got through with him.
"Long ago," she answered. "And now you may have him."
Goyle bowed to her. "Mr. Bodney and I may go out of town for a day or
two--or, at least, I may. Will you permit me to hope to see you upon my
return?"
"Oh, certainly," she said, and he felt that at last he was making some
sort of progress. "I thank you," he replied.
But there was something more to follow. "You can hope that you may, and
I will hope that you may not," she said.
Goyle bowed, and looked at her, admiringly. "Miss Needle-tongue," he
said. "But you catch me."
Bodney told him to come on, but he lingered a moment longer. "May I
tell you good-bye?" he said, and she replied that she hoped so. As the
two men were going out the Judge came in. Goyle glanced at him, but
Bodney averted his eyes. The old man's face smote him with reproach.
*CHAPTER V.*
*SHE SAID THAT SHE WAS STRONG.*
Agnes, accustomed to joke with the Judge, now looked at him in
astonishment; his face was haggard and his eyes appeared hot with
suffering. But he had not forgotten his dignified courtesy. He bowed
to her, bade her good morning, as if he had not seen her earlier in the
day, said that he was looking for Florence, and asked if she would
please find her, that he desired to see her--alone. Agnes went out at
once to find Florence, wondering what could have happened to throw so
serious a cast upon the countenance of the Judge; and, left alone, the
old man walked slowly up and down the room, talking to himself. "I
don't know how to tell her, but she must know of it. It is my duty to
tell her." He paused, looked toward the door, and continued: "I am
striving to master my heart by smothering it; I must be the master of a
dead heart." He paused again and resumed his walk. "Yesterday the
world was a laugh, but today it is a groan. I wonder if he saw me. No,
and toward him I must bear the burden of silence. A mother's heart
would see the accusation in his face, and I must protect her. To keep
her shielded is now my only duty in life. That decadent book! It was a
seed of degeneracy. Ah, come in," he said, as Florence appeared at the
door. Howard had called her eyes the searchlights of sympathy; and she
turned those lights upon the old man's face as she came into the room,
slowly approaching him.
"Did you send for me--father?"
"Father," he repeated with a catch in his breath that sounded like a
sob. "My dear, it comes sweet from your lips, but it falls upon me with
reproach." He stood with bowed head, and Florence put her hand on his
arm.
"What is the matter, father? Why, you need a doctor. Let me call--"
"No!" came from him like a cry of pain, as he stepped back from her.
"You must call no one. Wait a moment. Oh, I've got iron in me--but it
is cold, Florence--cold. Wait a moment. Wait."
She stood looking at him, wondering, striving to catch some possible
forecast of what might follow, but in his face there was no light save
the dull hue of agony. Gradually he became calmer, and then he said: "I
am going to tell you something; it is my duty."
"Yes, sir, I am listening."
"But are you strong enough to hear what I have to say?"
"Does it take strength to hear?"
"In your case--yes."
"Then I am strong." She moved closer and stood resolutely before him,
looking into his eyes.
"Florence, I know your character; I know that your word is too sacred to
break, but this is--is an unparalleled case, and you must be put under
oath."
"Judge, instead of administering an oath, you ought to take medicine.
Why, I never saw you this way before."
She was about to turn away from him, but he took her by the arm. "Look
at me. You never saw me this way before. No. In all my experience I
have never heard of a man being so situated. I am a novelty of
distress. And you must know what my ailment is, but you must take an
oath, a sacred oath, not to speak of it to any human being."
"But if it is so awful, why should I know it? Tell it to a physician."
"It is my duty to tell it to one human being, and you are the one."
"Then I will take the oath."
"Hold up your right hand." She obeyed him. "You swear never to repeat
what I tell you."
"Yes, I swear."
"By the memory of your mother?"
"Yes, by the memory of my mother."
"And you hope that the Eternal God may frown upon you if you do not keep
your oath?"
"Judge, this is awful."
"Are you going to back out now? Are you afraid?"
"I am not afraid. I hope that the Eternal God may frown upon me if I do
not keep my oath."
He took her hand, the hand held high, and said to her, "You will keep
your oath. It was disagreeable to take it, but the measure was
necessary. And now comes the agonizing part of my duty--and I wish I
had died before being compelled to discharge it. Florence, you know
that I love you."
"Yes, sir, I know it--could never have doubted it. But why do you speak
of it? What has it to do with--"
"Wait. This shall be explained. You must not marry my son."
She stepped back from him and from her clear eyes, always so
sympathetic, there came a flash of anger. "You are mad, Judge," she
said.
"I grant it. He drove me mad--he sent me to hell."
"And you would drag me there."
"I would save you. It is a duty I owe to the memory of your father and
to my own love for you. Yes, it is my duty."
"And it is my duty," she said, with now the light of sympathy in her
eyes, "to send for a doctor."
"Wait. You have not heard. Remember you have sworn."
"Yes, and I will keep my oath. No, I have not heard. You have told me
nothing. You have simply been mad enough to say that we must not
marry." The sympathy had gone from her eyes. "You must know that Howard
and I have all our lives lived for each other. I owe you nearly
everything, I would make almost any sacrifice for you, but when you even
intimate--but I will not reproach you," she said, softening again. "You
have not told me why," she added, looking into his eyes.
"My child, it would break your heart."
She straightened and put her hand upon her bosom. "I offer my heart.
Break it."
"Florence, my son Howard is a thief."
She snatched her hand from her bosom and raised it as if to strike him,
but one look of agony from his eyes, and her hand fell. "Judge, how can
you say such a thing? Something has tripped your mind, but how could it
fall so low?"
"My mind has not been tripped. It is as firm as a rock. And you cannot
doubt my word. Last night I saw him stealing money from the safe, as if
I had not always supplied all his wants, and at an alarm which I had
fixed, little dreaming who the thief might be, he ran away--a thief.
You cannot doubt my word."
Stern of countenance and with her eyes piercing him, regal as the
barbaric queens we find in ancient fiction, she stood, and the moment of
her silence seemed an age to him. "I pity your word and I doubt your
eyes."
"You may pretend to, but you cannot in your heart. You must believe me
when I say that I saw him."
"You saw a vision. Your eyes have lied to you."
"I saw no vision. My eyes told a heart-breaking truth. Florence, would
you marry a thief?"
"Sir, I would marry Howard if I knew that he had stolen a hammer to nail
a god to the cross."