"You said something about a card."
"Yes, sir; it was sent in to me tonight while I was with my sick
friend--man wanted to see him on business and insisted upon coming in,
and it was all I could do to put him off."
"Brood too much," the Judge repeated, after a brief interval of silence.
"The mind mildews under any one thing that lies upon it long. A
continuous joy might be as poisonous as a grief." He leaned forward
with his head in his hands, and talked in a smothered voice.
"The sun is coming up," said Bodney. "Don't you think you'd better lie
down?"
"You go to bed. Don't mind me."
"Believe I will. I am worn out, and I don't see how you can stand it as
well as you do."
"In worry there is a certain sort of strength. Go to bed."
Bodney got up and went to the door, but turned and looked at the old
man, bowed over with his fingers pressed to his eyes. The coming of the
sun had driven the game further off into the night, and now the wretch's
heart smote him hard. He could lift that gray head; into those dull
eyes he could throw the light of astonishment, but they would shoot
anger at him and drive him out of the house. If he could only win enough
to replace the money taken from the safe, to give himself the standing
of true repentance, he would confess his crime. Win enough! He could
not conceive of getting it in any other way; all idea of business had
been driven from his mind. He had no mind, no reason; what had been his
mind was now a disease on fire, half in smoke and half in flame, but he
felt that if he could get even, the fire would go out and the smoke
clear away. The old fellow who turned moralist could have told him that
he had for more than half a life-time struggled to get even, that the
poker fool is never even but twice, once before he plays and once after
he is dead. And the scholar who had forgotten his grammar in the
constant strain of the present tense would have assured him that the
hope to get even was a trap set by the devil to catch the imaginative
mind.
The Judge groaned, and Bodney took a step toward him, with his hands
stretched forth as if he would grasp him and shake him into a
consciousness of the truth, but the old man looked up and the young man
faltered. "I thought you were going to bed, George."
"I am, sir."
"Then, why do you stand there looking at me?"
"I--I don't know," he stammered, in his embarrassment.
"Yes, you do know," said the Judge, giving him a straight and steady
look. "You know that you are hanging about to plead the cause of
your--your friend; but it is of no use. Friend! I would to God he had
been my friend. Confess, now; isn't that the reason you are standing
there?"
"You read my mind, Judge," said the wretch.
"Do I? Then read mine and go to bed."
As Bodney turned toward the door, he met William coming in. The old
fellow carried his coat thrown across one arm and was trying to button
his shirt collar. It was his custom to begin dressing at his bedside,
grabbing up the first garment within reach, and to complete his work in
the office, the basement, or even the back yard. "Hold on a minute," he
said to Bodney. "Button this infernal collar for me." Bodney halted to
obey. "Can't you take hold of it? Is it as slick as all that? Do you
think I wear an eel around my neck? Confound it, don't choke the life
out of me. Get away. I can do it better myself. Didn't I tell you to
quit? Are you a bull-dog, that you have to hang on that way?"
Bodney trod heavily to his room. The old fellow threw his coat on the
table and began to walk about, tugging at his collar.
"Do you think you can button it here better than in your own room?" the
Judge asked, straightening up and looking at him. "Has this office been
set aside as a sort of dressing parade ground for you?"
William was muttering and fuming. "I was Judge Lynch out West, once,
and was about to set a horse-thief free, but just then I incidentally
heard that he had sold collars and I ordered him hanged. Did you speak
to me, John?"
"I asked you a question."
"I knew a Universalist preacher that changed his religion on account of
a collar--swore that its inventor must necessarily go to the flames.
What was the question you asked me, John?"
"One that would have no more effect on you than a drop of water on the
back of a mole."
William buttoned his collar, tied his cravat, took a seat opposite his
brother and looked hard at him. "John, I see that your temper hasn't
improved. And you have got up early to turn it loose on me. Now, what
have I done? Hah, what have I done?"
"I have never heard of your doing anything, William."
"That's intended as an insult. Oh, I understand you. You never heard
of my doing anything. You haven't? You never heard of my electing two
governors out West. You bat your eyes at the fact that I sent a man to
the United States Senate. Why, at one time I owned the whole state of
Montana, and a man who had never done anything couldn't--couldn't make
that sort of showing."
"What did you do with the state?"
"What did I do with it? A nice question to ask a man. What did Adam do
with the Garden of Eden?"
"You were not driven out of Montana, were you?"
"Driven out? Who said I was driven out?"
"But Adam was driven out of the garden."
"Oh, yes, of course. I merely spoke of the Garden of Eden for the
reason that Adam's claim on it was only sentimental, if I may call it
such. I mean that I owned the good opinion of every man in the state.
I could have had anything within the gift of the commonwealth."
"Then, why didn't you go to the Senate, or elect yourself governor? Why
were you so thoughtless a prodigal of your influence?"
"That's a nice question to ask a man. Why didn't you buy an acre in
this town that would have made you worth millions? Why didn't I go to
the Senate? I had something else on my mind. Every man is not
ambitious to hold office. There's something higher than politics. I
was educated for a different sphere of action. I was, as you know,
educated for a preacher, but my faith slipped from under me. But it is
of no use to talk to you."
"Not much, William, I admit."
"But can't you tell me why this peculiar change has come over you? It
worries me, and you know why."
The Judge made a gesture. "Don't--it's not that. My mind is perfectly
sound."
"Then, what's the trouble?"
"I can't tell you."
"Am I ever to know?"
"I hope not."
"I don't see why you should give me the keen edge of your temper and not
tell me the cause that led you to whet it against me."
"I have not whetted it against you--it has been whetted on my heart. Go
away, William, and leave me to myself."
"I would if you were yourself, but you are not. There is something the
matter with you."
"I grant that."
"And in it there is cause for alarm, both for you and for myself."
"Now, please don't allude to that again. My mind is perfectly sound, I
tell you."
"And so one dear to us often declared."