"Then, of course, I'll go. Here comes your wife. Rachel, there is
something radically wrong with John, and I advise you to send for the
best physician in this town."
*CHAPTER IX.*
*HEARD A GONG IN THE ALLEY.*
More than once during the night had Mrs. Elbridge looked in upon her
husband, to urge upon him the necessity for rest. But he had told her
that he had on hand the most important case that ever came to him,
declared that the life of a man depended upon his meditation; a new
point in law was involved, and it would be a crime to sleep until his
work was done. The governor of the state had submitted the question to
him. And thus had she been put off, having no cause to doubt him; but
now she caught William's alarm. "My dear," said the Judge, when she
approached him, "it seems that both you and my brother are struggling
hard to misunderstand me. You know that I have never deceived you--you
know that I would tell you if there were anything wrong. It is true
that the death of my brother Henry has shocked me greatly--"
"But why don't you tell William? He ought to know. And it is our duty
to tell him."
The old man, looking toward the door, held up his hand. "No, he must
not be told--nor must anyone else. I have an object."
"But, my dear, I don't see--"
"I know you don't. And I cannot tell you--I can--can merely hint. It
is a question of life insurance, and the company must not hear of his
death till certain points are settled. William, as you know, while one
of the best men in the world, has a slippery tongue. And, besides, he
is in no condition now to hear bad news. It is a secret, but he is
having trouble with his heart--under treatment. Let us wait till he is
stronger."
"But, dear, is that a cause why you should frown so at Howard, and treat
him with such contempt?"
He walked away from her, but she followed him and put her hand on his
arm. They halted near the safe and stood in silence, he looking at the
iron chest, she looking at him. The sound of a peddler's gong came from
the alley, and he sprang back from the safe and dropped heavily down
upon a chair. Florence was heard talking to someone, and Mrs. Elbridge
called her, and at this the old man brightened. Florence was his
recourse, his safeguard, and when she came in he greeted her with
something of his former heartiness.
"Florence, they are worried about me. Tell them that they have no
cause."
The young woman's face was bright with a smile, but it was a light
without warmth, a kindly light intended to deceive, not the Judge, but
his wife. Mrs. Elbridge looked at her husband and was astonished at the
change in him. She could not understand it, but she was not halting to
investigate causes. "You are our physician, Florence," she said. "But
you must bring your patient under better discipline. He didn't go to
bed at all last night."
"Then I shall have to reprimand him. Sir, why do you disobey my
orders?"
The old man's attempt at a smile was but a poor pretense, but it
deceived the eye of affection. "Because, Doctor, I had a most important
case on hand; but it is about worked out now, and I will in the future
have more regard for your instructions."
They talked pleasantly for a time, and then Mrs. Elbridge went out,
leaving the Judge and Florence in the office; but no sooner was the wife
gone than the husband began to droop; and the light of the forced smile
faded from the countenance of the young woman. She looked at the Judge
and her face was stern. "We are hypocrites for her," she said, nodding
toward the door through which Mrs. Elbridge had just passed.
"Yes, to protect the tenderest nature I have ever known. She could not
stand such a trouble. It would kill her."
"She would not believe your story."
"Yes, she would. Unlike you, she could not be infatuated with the
blindness of her own faith. She loves her son, but she knows me--loves
me. She could not doubt my eyes. What," he said, getting up with
energy and standing in front of Florence, "you are not debating with
yourself whether or not to tell her, are you? Can you, for one moment,
forget your oath--an oath as solemn and as binding as any oath ever
taken? You, surely, are not forgetting it."
"No, but I ought to. My heart cries for permission to tell Howard. His
distress reproaches me."
"But your oath."
"Oh, I shall not forget it, sir," she said, almost savagely. "But, it
was not generous of you--not generous."
"What wasn't?"
"Swearing me to secrecy. You took advantage of what you conceive to be
my honor, my strength of character; and you would have me break his
heart by refusing to marry him. You have a far-reaching cruelty."
"Florence--my daughter, you must not say that. You know why I would keep
you from marrying him. Have I been a judge all these years, to find
that I am now incapable of pronouncing against my own affections and my
own flesh and blood? I am broader than that."
"You mean that you are narrower than that. It is noble to shield those
whom we love."
"No, it is selfish. You are a woman, and therefore cannot see justice
as a man sees it."
"My eyes may not be clear enough to see justice, but they have never
beheld a vision to--"
"Don't, Florence--now, please don't. You know how I held him in my
heart; you know that no vision could have driven him out. But it is
useless to argue. I have knowledge and you have faith. Knowledge is
brightest when the eye is opened wide; faith is strongest when the eye
is closed."
And thus she replied: "Ignorant faith may save a soul; knowledge alone
might damn it."
"Very good and very orthodox, my child; a saying, though, may be
orthodox, and yet but graze the outer edge of truth."
"But if there be so little truth in things orthodox, why should there be
such obligation in an oath?"
"Ah, you still have that in your mind. Look at me. I hold you to that
oath. Will you keep it?"
"Yes, but if I did not believe that within a short time something might
occur to clear this mystery, I would break it in a minute."
"And let your soul be damned?"
"Now, you are orthodox. Yes, I would break it. But I will wait, in the
belief that something must occur."
"There is no way too tortuous for a faith to travel," the old man
murmured, but then he bethought himself that to encourage waiting was a
furtherance of this humane plan of protection, and then he added: "Yes,
wait; we never know, of course. Something might occur. But make me a
promise, now in addition to your oath--that if, finally, when nothing
does occur and you are resolved to break it, that you will first come to
me."
"I will make that promise."
Agnes tripped in with a tune on her lips. The Judge wondered why George
Bodney had not fallen in love with her. She was bright enough and
pretty enough to ensnare the heart of any man. But Bodney was peculiar,
and susceptibility to the blandishments of a bewildering eye was not one
of his traits; his nature held itself in reserve for a debasing
weakness. Agnes asked Florence why everyone seemed to drift
unconsciously into that mouldy old office. Florence did not know, but
the Judge said that it was attractive to women because it was their
nature to find interest in the machinery of man's affairs. Business was
the means with which man had established himself as woman's superior,
and there was always a mystery in the appliances of his work-shop.
"What nonsense, Mr. Judge," said Agnes. "It is because there is so much
freedom in here. You can't soil anything in here--never can in a place
where men stay." Howard passed the door, and the Judge's face darkened.
Florence looked at him and her eyes were not soft.
"Now, what are you frowning at, Mr. Judge?" said Agnes. "Do you mean
that I haven't told the truth?"
"You always tell the truth, Agnes."
"No, I don't. I told Mr. Bradley a fib--a small one, though; a little
white mouse of a fib. But you have to tell fibs to a preacher."
"It is the way of life. Fibs to a preacher and lies to a judge," said
the old man.
"Lies _for_ a judge," Florence spoke up.
"What's the matter with everybody!" Agnes cried, looking from one to
another. "You people talk in riddles to me. I'm not used to it. And,
Florence, you are getting to be so sober I don't know what to do with
you. You and the Judge are just alike. What's the matter with
everybody? Mr. Howard mumbles about the house and Mr. Bodney acts like a
man with--with the jerks, whatever that is, for I don't know. There,
I'm glad breakfast is ready. Come on, Mr. Judge."
*CHAPTER X.*
*WILLIAM AGREED WITH THE JUDGE.*
The Judge took his accustomed seat at the head of the breakfast table,
Howard on his right and Bodney's vacant chair at his left; but there was
no disposition on the part of the worry-haunted father to enter into
conversation with the son. Howard was talkative; his mind might have
been termed dyspeptic instead of digestive. The books, stories,
sketches, scraps that he read, ill-stored, appeared as a patchwork in
his talk. He spoke of a French author, and Florence saw the Judge
wince. She was sitting beside Howard, and she pulled at his coat sleeve
as a warning to drop the disagreeable name. He understood and changed
the subject, but the fire had been kindled.
"It is no wonder that the French could not whip the Germans," said the
Judge, not addressing himself to Howard, but to the table. "It was the
literature of France that weakened her armies. Morality was destroyed,
and without morality there can be no enduring courage."
"I think Victor Hugo is just lovely," said Agnes. The Judge nodded
assent. "A great genius--and, by the way, he said that there were but
three men worthy to be estimated as memorable in all the history of this
life--Moses, Shakespeare and Homer. He belonged to older and better
France, at the dying end of her greatness. And you will observe that he
did not include a Frenchman in his list."
"But I warrant you," said Howard, "that in his secret mind he put
himself at the head of it."
The Judge looked at him. "Warrants issued by you, sir, are not always
returnable accompanied by the facts."
"No, I wouldn't issue a warrant for the arrest of a fact. Truth ought
to be at large."
Florence glanced at the Judge and saw him slowly close his eyes and
slowly open them. "You think Hugo lovely," said the old man, speaking
to Agnes. "But what do you think of Zola?"
"I don't know anything about him. But some of the girls said he was
horrid," she answered.
"It is a good thing for you that you don't know anything about him, and
it reflects credit upon the judgment of the girls who pronounced him
horrid," said the Judge. "His influence upon his own country, and upon
this country, too, has been most pernicious."
William was usually most prompt at meal time, but now he was for some
unaccountable reason delayed; but he came in just as the Judge closed
his remark concerning Zola, sat down and began to tuck a napkin under
his chin. The Judge had more than once hinted his displeasure at this
vulgarity, but his brother continued to practice it, not without heeding
the hint, but with a defense of his custom. He had elected governors,
and was not to be ruled into discomfort by a woman who had written a
book on etiquette. He knew politeness as well as the next man or next
woman, for that matter. Many a time had he seen Senator Bascomb, who
owed his election to him, sit down to table in his shirt sleeves, with a
napkin tucked into his bosom, and Washington City was compelled to
acknowledge him a man of brains. The Judge stared at William, and was
doubtless about to repeat his hint, when Florence said something to
attract his eye, and shook her head at him.
"What have we under discussion this morning?" said William, squaring in
readiness to defend himself, for he ever expected an attack.
"French literature," Howard answered.
"French fiddlesticks," William replied. "There is no French literature.
They have slop that they call literature."
"I thank you, William," said the Judge, forgetting the napkin. This was
received by the former owner of Montana as proof that the Judge's
ill-nature had been cured; and, bowing, he pulled the napkin from about
his jowl and spread it upon his knees. And then arose a spirited
discussion between the political Warwick and Howard, the former
snatching a cue from his brother, affirming that the influence of France
had always been bad, the latter maintaining that France had civilized
and cultivated the modern world. Florence pulled at Howard's coat
sleeve; and the Judge, observing her, and irritated that she was moved
to employ restraint, threw off all attempt at an exercise of his
patience. "Let him proceed!" he roared, and everyone looked at him in
surprise. "Let him proceed to the end of his disgraceful advocacy of
corruption. But I will not stay to hear it." And, getting up, he bowed
himself out.
"Howard," said Mrs. Elbridge, "you ought not to talk about things that
irritate your father. He is not well."
"You are wrong, Howard, to oppose him," Florence spoke up.
"I suppose I am," the young man admitted, "but he has always taught me
to form an opinion of my own and to hold it when once well formed, and
until recently he seemed pleased at what he termed my individuality and
independence. But now I can't do or say a thing to please him. I'm no
child, and not a fool, I hope; then, why should I be treated as if I had
no sense at all? What have I done that he should turn against me? He
treats everyone else with consideration and respect. He even has
toleration of Uncle William's dates," he added, mischievously thrusting
at the old fellow for the recent stand he had taken, knowing that, with
him, it was the policy of the moment rather than the conviction of the
hour.
"What!" exclaimed William, with a bat of eye and a swell of jaw.
"Turned loose on me, have you? Well, I want to tell you, sir, that I
won't stand it. I am aware that my forbearance heretofore may have
misled you with regard to the extent of my endurance, but I want to say
that you have made a mistake. I am treated with consideration and
respect everywhere except in this household, and I won't stand it,
that's all."
"Thank you," Howard replied.
"Thank me! Thank me for what?"
"You said, 'that's all,' and I thank you for it."
Mrs. Elbridge interposed with a mild and smiling admonition. She shook
her finger at Howard. "Let him go ahead, Rachel," the old fellow spoke
up. "Let him go ahead as far as his strength will permit him.
He's--he's set himself against us, and as he runs riot in the privilege
of the spoiled heir, why, I guess we'll have to stand it--as long as we
can. Of course, there'll come a time when all bodily and moral strength
will fail us, but until then let him go ahead. Yes, has set himself
against us."
"Us, did you say, Uncle Billy? You are evidently one of the us. Who's
the other?" Howard asked, immensely tickled, for the warmth of the
family joke was most genial to him.
"I don't want any of your Uncle Billying. I always know what to expect
when you begin that."
"I began it the other night and ended by giving you a meerschaum pipe,
didn't I?"
"Oh, meerschaum. Chalk--if there ever was a piece used by a tailor to
mark out the angles of a raw-boned man--that pipe's chalk. You could no
more color it than you could a door-knob."
"A friend of mine brought it from Germany, Uncle Billy."
"Did he? He brought it from a German beer garden, where they peddle
them in baskets and sell them by the paper bag full, like popcorn. I
had my suspicions at the time."
"But you were willing to run the risk of acceptance because your pipe
was so strong."
The old fellow put down his knife and fork and, straightening up, looked
at Howard as if he would bore him through. "I deny your slander, sir."
"So do I," said Howard.
"You do what?"
"Deny the slander--unless there is slander in truth."
"Howard, you remind me of a cart-horse, treading on his trace chains.
You remind me--I don't know what you remind me of."
"Of a cart-horse, you said."
Again Mrs. Elbridge admonished him not to irritate the old fellow, but
did it so laughingly that he accepted it more as a spur than as a
restraint; and Florence pulled at his sleeve, but more in connivance
than in reproof. Agnes laughed outright. She declared that it was
better than a circus. The old man turned his eyes upon her, giving her
a long and steady gaze, and she whispered to Florence that even the
pin-feathers of his dignity had begun to rise. "Better than a circus,"
he replied. "I don't see any similarity except that we have a clown."
He winked at Mrs. Elbridge, as if he expected her to rejoice in what he
believed to be a victory over the young man. Marriage may cripple a
man's opportunities--in some respects it may restrict his range of
vision, but it renders his near view much more nearly exact. Having
never known the repressions of the married state--ignorant of the
intellectual clearing-house of matrimony--William was blind to many
things, and particularly to the fact that the mother hated him at that
moment, though she smiled when he winked at her.
"Not much like modern circuses," Howard admitted. "They have a whole
group of clowns, while we have but two, at most."
"Howard," said the old fellow, "do you mean to call me a clown?"
"Not a good one, Uncle William."
"Not a good one. Well, sir, I want to say that I'd make a deuced sight
better one than you." When emphasis was put upon the word, it meant,
with Uncle William, not the opprobrious, but the commendable. During
his boyhood, to be a clown was to be greater than a judge, greater, if
possible, than the driver of a stage-coach. In the old day, it was a
compliment to tell a boy that he would make a good clown.
"I don't doubt you'd make a good clown, Uncle Billy. Aspiration is,
within itself, a sort of fitness."
"What do you mean by that?"
"There is a certain genius in mere ambition," Howard went on. "If we
yearn--and yearn, only, we come nearer to an achievement than those who
don't yearn. Who knows that genius is not desire--just desire, and
nothing more. I know a man over at St. Jo that can eat more cherries
than any man in Michigan, not because he is larger than any of the rest,
but because he has a broader appetite for cherries--more yearning."
William turned to Mrs. Elbridge. "Rachel, do you think he's lost what
little sense he ever had."
"William," she said, "you must not talk to me that way. I won't put up
with it, sir. I am sure he has as good sense as any--"
"Oh, if you are going to turn against me I guess I'd better go," he
broke in, getting up. "I'll go to my brother. He at least can
understand me."
The Judge was in the office. William entered, and, going up to the
desk, began to rummage among some papers. "Trying to swim?" the Judge
asked, looking up from a document spread out before him on the table.
"No, I'm looking for a cigar."
"I thought you were trying to swim."
William stepped back from the desk. "John, I didn't expect such
treatment after our hearty agreement at the breakfast table. But it's
what I get for taking sides. The neutral is the only man that gets
through this life in good shape."
"And is that the reason, William, that you didn't preach--didn't want to
take sides against the devil?"
"If I'm not wanted here, I can go to my own room."
"I wish you would. I am expecting an old client."
"Oh, I can go."
"Can you?"
"John, your irritability has irritated everybody on the place. You have
poisoned our atmosphere. I will leave you."
"Thank you," said the Judge, examining the document before him. After a
time, and still without looking up, he added: "Still here?"
"I have just come in, sir," said Howard. The Judge looked up.
"I thought it was William."
"He has just gone out. And I have come to beg your pardon for what I
said at breakfast. I didn't mean to worry you; I--"
"It is unnecessary to beg my pardon, sir."
"I hope not." He moved closer, with one hand resting upon the table.
"Father, something is wrong, and--"
"Most decidedly."
"But won't you please tell me what it is? If the fault is in me and I
can reach it I will pull it out. I could bear many crosses, but your
ill-opinion is too heavy."
The old man looked up at him. "To your lack of virtue you have added
silly reading."
"But I am playing in a farce worse than any I have ever read. Be frank
with me. You have taught me frankness."
"And tried to teach you honesty."
"Yes, both by precept and example. But what is to come of it all when
you treat me this way? Why don't you go to some springs?"
"Why don't you leave me to myself?"
"I am almost afraid. You rake up enmities against me when you are
alone, it seems; and you pour them out upon me when we meet. Why is
it?"
The Judge waved him off. "Go away," he said.
*CHAPTER XI.*
*THE OLD OFFICE.*
The office in La Salle Street was in an old-fashioned building, with
heavily ornamented front. The room was large, high of ceiling, with a
grate and a marble mantlepiece. It was on the first floor, after the
short flight of iron steps leading from the pavement. Once it had been
active with business, but now few clients found their way into its dingy
precincts. Occasionally some old-timer would come in, but upon seeing
Howard or Bodney, faces offensively young to him, would go out again,
sighing over the degeneracy of the day. The young men had often advised
a change of quarters, apartments in a steel building, but the Judge
would not consent. The old room was sentiment's heritage. Many a famous
man had trod the rough carpet on the floor; many a time had the dry eye
of the tired lawyer watered at the wit of Emery Storrs; and Ingersoll,
warm with fellowship and wine, walking up and down, had poured out the
overflow of his magic brain. How intellectual were its surroundings
then, and now how different! The great advocate was gone, and in his
stead sat the real-estate lawyer, emotionless, keen-eyed, searching out
the pedigree of a title to a few feet of soil--narrow, direct,
dyspeptic, money-dwarfed.
After leaving home, Howard went straightway to the down-town office, and
there, amid the dust raised by the negro who was sweeping, he found
Goyle, waiting for Bodney. "I have taken possession," said Goyle.
"All right. And you are taking more dust than is good for you."
"I don't mind that. Where is Bodney?"
"He hadn't got up when I left home. He was up all night with a sick
friend, I believe, and is not likely to be down before the afternoon."
Goyle looked at his watch. "I will come in again about three o'clock.
How is business with you?" He did not get up.
"The business of waiting is good. It is about all a young lawyer need
expect." Howard sat down, telling the negro to leave off sweeping; and
Goyle, leaning back, put his feet upon the window ledge. He was never in
haste to leave. It was one of his sayings that he was looking for a
soft seat, and he appeared now to have found one. He gazed out into the
rumbling thoroughfare, at men of all ages passing one another, pushing,
jamming, limping, some on crutches, some tottering, some strong of limb,
all with eager faces. "Rushing after the dollar," said Goyle.
"Or fleeing from necessity," replied Howard.
"Yes, and hard pressed by the enemy. But they have made their enemy
powerful--have built up their necessities. Once a shadow lay upon the
ground, a harmless thing; but they breathed hot breath upon it and it
became a thing of life, jumped up and took after them. I hate the whole
scheme." He waved his hand, and Howard sat looking at him--at the hair
curling about his forehead, at his Greek nose; and he wondered why one
so seemingly fitted for the chase should express such contempt for it.
He spoke of it, and Goyle turned toward him with a cold smile. "You
have heard," said he, "of the fellow who would rather be a cat in hell
without claws. Well, that's what I am, and where I am when thrown out
there." He nodded toward the street, and then lazily taking out a
cigarette, lighted it.
"I don't believe that," said Howard. "I believe that you are well
fitted, except, possibly, by disposition. You lack patience."
"Patience! It doesn't admit of patience. Do those fellows out there
look patient?"
"A man may run and be patient."
"And he may also run and be a fool."
"Or be a bigger fool and not run. I am a believer in the world--in
man."
"I'm not," said Goyle. "I know that the world is a trap and that man is
caught. Puppies play, but the old dog lies down. He knows that life is
a farce."
"The old dog lies down, it is true," Howard replied, "but he dreams of
his youth and barks in his dream."
"And calls himself a fool when he awakes. It is the same with the old
man. There comes a time when he loses confidence even in those who are
nearest him." Out of the sharp corner of his eye he shot a glance at
Howard and saw his countenance change. An old man, shriveled and
wretched, with feather dusters for sale, came shambling into the room.
Goyle glanced at him, and when he was gone, turned to Howard and said:
"Ask his opinion of the world. He is your old dog who dreamed and
barked in his dream."
"Goyle, I don't like the position you take. My experience and my
reading teach me better."
Goyle glanced at him again. "Your reading, because what you read was
written to flatter hope--to sell. Your experience is not ripe. It is
not even green fruit. It is a bud. Oh, of course there are some old
men, your father, for instance, who--"
"Well, what about him?"
"Nothing, only he is by nature fitted to smile at everything."
Howard got up, went over to a bookcase, took down a book, put it back,
went to the open door, and stood there looking at a doctor's sign, just
across the hall. Goyle got up with a yawn, came walking slowly toward
the door, and Howard, hearing him, but without looking round, stepped
aside to let him pass out. In the hall he halted to repeat that he
would return during the afternoon.
"You have the privilege to come and go as often as you like, being
George's friend," said Howard, "but, so far as you and I are concerned,
I don't think we are suited to each other."
Goyle laughed and stepped back a pace or two. "Why, on account of my
nonsense just now? That was all guff; I didn't mean it. It is the
easiest thing in the world for a man to condemn the whole of creation,
and I talk that way when my mind is too dull to act. Why, I am going
out now to knock an eye tooth out of the wolf."
"And you didn't mean what you said about old men?"
"Not a word of it."
"Why did you happen to speak of my father?"
"Merely to refute what I had said about old men in general. Well, so
long."
Howard went into the doctor's office, as musty a den as ever a fox
inhabited. The physician was an old man, who had no future and who
prescribed in the past. During the best years of his life he had dozed
or talked under the influence of opium, so given to harmless fabrication
when awake that it followed him into his slumber, snoring a lie; now
cured of the habit but not of the evil it had wrought. When Howard
entered the old man was reading a medical journal of 1849, and he
glanced up disappointed to see the visitor looking so well. He had met
Howard many a time, but his memory was short.
"Ah, come in, sir. Have a seat. You are--let me see.
"My office is just across the hall."
"Yes, yes, I remember. You are in the--the brokerage business. And
your name is--"
"I am trying to be a lawyer. Elbridge is my name."
"Of course it is. I used to know your father--was called in
consultation just before he died."
"Then it must have been since I left the house this morning."
"Ah, let me see. Elbridge--the Judge. I'm wrong, of course. It was
Elsworth. How is your father?"
"That's what I wanted to talk about, and I am sorry that you do not
recall him more vividly. I wanted to ask your opinion."
"Why, now I know him as well as I know myself. What is it you wish to
consult me about? His health?"
"Well, I hardly know how to get at it. You know he has been a very busy
man--working day and night for years; and I wanted to ask if a sudden
breaking off isn't dangerous--that is, not exactly dangerous, but likely
to induce a change in disposition?"
The doctor looked wise, with his hand flat upon the medical journal, and
as it had been printed in the drowsy afternoon of a slow day, seemed to
inspire caution against a quick opinion.
"I hold, and have held for years," said he, "that a complete revolution
in a man's affairs, sudden riches or sudden poverty--the er--the
withdrawing of vital forces necessary to a continuous strain, is a shock
to the system, and therefore deleterious. It is unquestionably a fact,
not only known to the medical fraternity, but to ordinary observation,
that incentive in the aged is a sort of continuance of youth, in other
words, to make myself perfectly clear, the impetus of youth when
unchecked, goes far into old age--when the pursuit has not been changed;
and therefore a sudden halting is bad for the system. Is your father's
health impaired?"
"I can't say that it is. He appears to be strong, but his temper is not
of the best--toward me. Toward the others he is just the same."
"Ah, not unusual in such cases. It so happened that a sudden change
must have taken place in him, and as you were doubtless the first one to
come in contact with him after the change, his--his displeasure, if I
may be permitted the term, fell upon you."
"But I was not the first one."
"Um, a complication. I shall have to study that up a little. Perhaps
I'd better see him."
"Oh, no, don't do that. It really amounts to nothing. I consulted you
because you were well acquainted with him. And I am now inclined to
think that I have made more of it than it really is. How are you getting
along?" Howard asked, to change the subject.
"Never better, sir, I am pleased to say. Of course medicine has
degenerated, splitting up into all sorts of specialties, but there are a
few people who don't want to be humbugged. Well, I am glad you called,"
he added as Howard turned to go. "Give my regards to your father."
Howard returned to the office, took up a book which held in closer
affinity the laws of verse than the laws of the land, and lying down
upon a leather lounge, was borne away by the gentle tide of a rhythmic
sea.
*CHAPTER XII.*
*WALKED AND REPENTED.*
A man can be more repentant when he walks than when he rides. The
world's most meditative highway is that road which we are told is paved
with good intentions; and strolling along it, our determination to
reform becomes stronger at each step until--until something occurs to
change it all. Bodney walked down town. And for the first time in his
life he fancied that he found the very bottom of his mind, and thereon
lay a resolution, an oath self-made, self-sworn to tell Howard the truth
and to take the consequences no matter what they might be. He had
intended, upon getting out of bed to make his confession to the old
gentleman, and he would have done so, he fully believed, had not the
Judge been engaged with a client. But perhaps after all it would better
serve the purposes of justice to confess to Howard. He was the one most
deeply injured. Yes, he would go at once to Howard and tell him the
truth. It would of course involve Goyle, but he ought to be involved;
he was a scoundrel. Perhaps they might both be sent to the
penitentiary. No matter, the confession must be made. He passed the
building wherein the night before he had agonized under the frown of
hard luck; he halted and looked into the entry-way, at the stairs worn
and splintered by the heavy feet of the unfortunate. Some strange
influence had fallen upon him, some strength not gathered by his own
vital forces had come to him, and now he knew that no longer could he be
a slave held by chains forged in that house of bondage. As he turned
away he met a man who had been in the game the night before. His face
was bright and he did not look like a slave.
"How did you come out?" Bodney asked.
"I was ninety in when you left, and I pull out sixty winner."
"You did? You were losing when I left."
"Yes, but they can't beat a man all the time. I tell you it would put
me in the hole if I didn't win. I owe at three or four places, and I go
around today and pay up."
Then, with a feeling like a sudden sickness at the stomach, came the
recollection of the druggist and the preacher, obligations not to be
discharged that day. Long after the moral nature has been weakened, the
poker player may continue to respect his own word, or rather he may not
respect it himself but may desire others to do so. Unless his income is
large he must operate mainly upon borrowed capital, and breaking his
word cripples his resources. And then, after having lost, there is a
self-shame in having borrowed, a confession of weakness. He condemns
himself for not having had strength enough to quit when he found that
there was no chance to get even. "There never is a chance to get even,"
Bodney mused as he walked on toward the office. "The old fellow who has
worn himself out at the cursed game says so and I believe it. I will
tell Howard--nothing shall shake my resolution. I will simply cut my
throat before I'll sink myself further in this iniquity. By nature I am
not dishonest. If I hadn't met that fellow Goyle I might--but I'll not
think of him. Now that fellow didn't play any better cards than I did,
was nearly a hundred in and pulled out sixty ahead. And he has paid his
debts while I must dodge. I wonder how much I have lost within the past
two months. On an average of fifty dollars a sitting. That won't do.
I had money enough to--but I won't think about it--won't do any good,
and besides it is over with now."
He found Howard in the office writing. "A brief?" said Bodney, sitting
down.
"In one sense--short meter," Howard replied.
"What, poetry?"
"Rhyme. I come by it naturally, you know. Have you heard from your
friend today, the one you sat up with?"
"Yes, he's better."
"Goyle was here--said he'd be back this afternoon."
"Didn't leave any money--didn't say what he wanted, did he?"
"No. I think he wants to talk more than anything else. He is a smart
fellow, George, but I am beginning to find fault with him. I don't like
his principles."
"Perhaps he has none," Bodney replied.
"What, have you begun to--"
"Oh, no, I merely said that."
"That's the way he talks--makes a statement and then declares he didn't
mean it. By the way, I'm going to get out of this office. There's no
use staying here. If father wants to keep it, let him; but you and I
ought to be in a more modern building. We have played at the law long
enough. What do you say?"
"I don't know but you are right. I would like to do something. Has
anyone else called?"
"Yes, Bradley was here."
"Bradley! What did he want?"
"He didn't say what he wanted."
"What did he say?"
"He inquired about your friend--the divinity student."
Bodney was silent, and to him it seemed that he was groping about in his
own mind, searching for his resolution, but he could not find it. The
preacher might have asked about the divinity student, the wretch mused,
but of course he wanted ten dollars; and what if it should be known at
the house that he had borrowed the money?
"Howard, can you let me have twenty-five dollars?"
"What, haven't you--you any money?"
"None that I can get hold of. I haven't said anything about it, but the
fact is, I have invested in suburban lots, and can make a good profit
any time I care to sell out, but I don't want to sell just now."
"Ah, business man, eh?" said Howard, crumpling the paper which he had
covered with rhymes and throwing it into the waste basket. "Well, I am
going to do something of that sort myself. I am glad you told me. Yes,
I'll let you have twenty-five. I have just about that amount with me."
Bodney took the money and seized his hat. "If Goyle comes in, tell him
I don't know when I'll be back. By the way, do you suppose Bradley went
home?"
[Illustration: Bodney took the money.]
"Yes, I think so--in fact, he remarked that he was going home to do some
work. Why?"
"Nothing, only he seemed interested in the young fellow I sat up
with--wanted to go with me to see him, in fact."
With a determination to pay the druggist and to go at once to Bradley's
house, Bodney left the office, still wondering, though, what had become
of his resolve to make a confession to Howard. But he would fortify
himself against trivial annoyances and then, morally stronger, he could
confess. As he was crossing the street he thought of the fellow who had
won sixty dollars. "No better player than I am," he mused. "He hung
on, that's all. Now, when I pay the preacher and the druggist I'll have
five dollars left. And with that five dollars I might win out. If I
had held to my resolution not to stay in on so many four flushes I might
have won out anyway. But the other fellows filled flushes and straights
against me. Why couldn't I against them? Simply because it wasn't my
day. But this may be my day. My day must come some time. As that
fellow said, 'they can't beat a man all the time.' Why not go to the
club first? Then, if I win, I can easily meet my obligations."
He went to the club. The game was full, but a "house" player got up and
gave him a seat. He bought ten dollars' worth of chips, and the first
hand he picked up was three queens. The pot was opened ahead of him and
another man came in. Bodney raised; they stood it, and drew one card
each. To disguise his hand, Bodney drew one, holding up a six. He
caught a six. The opener bet a white chip. The next man raised him
three dollars. Bodney raised all he had. The opener laid down; the
other man studied. "Is it that bad?" he asked, peeping at the tips of
his cards. Bodney said nothing; his blood was tingling, but in his eyes
there was a far-away look.
"It's up to you, Griff," said an impatient fellow.
"Yes, so I see; but I'm playing this hand. Raised it and drew one card,
then raised a one-card draw. Well, I've got to call you."
"Queen full."
"Beats a flush. Take the hay."
And now Bodney's troubles all were luminous. The wine of the game flowed
through his veins and made his heart drunk with delight. He held a pat
flush, won a big pot and felt a delicious coolness in his mind, the
chamber wherein he had groped through darkness, searching for the lost
resolution. But now it was light, and was crowded with charming fancies.
He bubbled wit and simmered humor, and the look-out man said, "you bet,
he's a good one." His stack was building so high that he could hardly
keep from knocking it over--did overturn it with a crash, and a loud
voice called to the porter: "Chip on the floor." The man attendant upon
the desk came over, put his hand on Bodney's shoulder and said: "Give it
to 'em; eat 'em up."
In the game there was a mind-reader, and they called him Professor. In
his "studio" he told marvelous things, brought up the past and read the
future. Hundreds of persons consulted him, race-track men looking for
tips, board of trade men wanting to know the coming trend of the market;
and in the twilight came the blushing maiden to ask if her lover were
true. In deepest secret you might write a dozen questions, put them in
your pocket and button your coat, but the Professor could read them. He
was unquestionably a mind-reader--till he sat down to play poker--and
then his marvelous powers failed him. The most unintuitive man at the
table could beat him. Bodney slaughtered him. "Can you make those
things every time?" said the Professor, calling a three-dollar bet.
"Not every time," Bodney replied, spreading a straight, "but I made it
this time."
"You can make them every time against me. You are the luckiest man I
ever saw. Do you always win?"
"I have lost more within the last two months than any man that comes up
the stairs."
"That's right," said the look-out.
One wretched fellow, who had been struggling hard, got up broke. He
strove to appear unconcerned, but despair was written on his face. As
he walked across the room toward the door the man at the desk called to
him. He turned with the light of a vague hope in his eye. In
consideration of his hard luck was the house about to stake him? "Have a
cigar before you go," said the man at the desk. The light went out of
the wretch's eye. He took the cigar and drooped away, to beg for an
extension from his landlord, to plead with the grocer, to lie to his
wife.
At six o'clock Bodney cashed in one hundred and four dollars. He would
eat dinner with them, but he would not play afterward. He had tried
that before. His eye-tooth had not only been cut; it had been sharpened
to the point of keenest wisdom. While he was at the dinner table Goyle
came in and took a seat behind him.
"Understand you sewed up the game," said the master.
"I've got just about enough to pay up what I owe," replied the slave.
"Come off. Let me have twenty."
"I can't do it--swear I can't. I owe all round town. I let you have
ten yesterday, you know."
"That's all right. You'll get it again--you know that. Let me have
twenty."
"I can't possibly do it."
But he did. Goyle got up and walked out into the hall with him, put his
hand on his arm and stood a long time, talking, gazing into his eyes.
So Bodney gave him the money and hastened away, his spirits somewhat
dampened. But his heart was still light enough to keep him pleased with
himself. Luck had surely turned. He would win enough to replace the
money taken from the safe, and then he would make a confession. But,
that fellow Goyle! What was the secret of his infatuating influence?
How did he inspire common words with such power, invest mere slang with
such command? But his influence could not last; indeed, it was
weakening. And when thus he mused his heart grew lighter. "He couldn't
make me aid and abet a robbery now," he said. "I would turn on him and
rend him. Let him take the money. The debt is now large enough to make
him shun me." With a smile and a merry salutation he stepped into the
drug store, and handed the druggist ten dollars, apologizing for not
having called during the day, but he had been busy and did not suppose
that it would make any particular difference. The druggist assured him
that it did not. Good fortune in its many phases may be taken as a
matter of course, but the return of borrowed money is nearly always a
surprise. The druggist gave him a cigar.
"Thank you," said Bodney. "By the way, have you an envelope and stamp?"
He found an envelope, but no stamp. A young woman who had held his
telephone for ten minutes had bought the last one. It was of no
consequence; Bodney could get one at the next corner. Tearing a scrap of
paper out of his notebook and putting it upon a show case, he scribbled
a few lines upon it, folded a ten dollar note in the paper, enclosed it
in the envelope and directed it to Bradley.
"I guess that ought to be safe enough," he said.
"I don't know," replied the druggist.
"Well, I'll risk it. Again let me thank you for your kindness. It
isn't often that I am forced to borrow, and wouldn't have done so last
night but for--"
"Oh, that's all right. Come in again," he added, as Bodney stepped out.
At the next corner he stamped his letter and went out to drop it into a
box, but before reaching it was accosted by someone, the Professor whom
he had slaughtered in the game.
"How did you come out?" Bodney asked.
"You broke me."
"Didn't you sit in after dinner?"
"For about three minutes--first hand finished me. I see you have a
letter there with ten dollars in it."
"What! How do you know?"
"And a note written with a pencil."
"Why, that's marvelous. How do you do it?"
The Professor smiled. "It is the line of my business. Why don't you
come up to my place some time? I can tell you many things."
It flashed through Bodney's mind that he might tell him many things, and
he shrank back from him. "I will, one of these days," he said, and
strode off without dropping his letter into the box. He put it into his
pocket, intending to stop at the next corner, but forgot it. "Now,
what?" he mused. "Believe I'll go home." He got on a car, but stepped
off before it started. He went to a hotel, into the reading room, and
took up a newspaper, but found nothing interesting in it. His thoughts
were upon the game. In his mind was the red glare of a pat diamond
flush. He could see it as vividly as if it had been held before his
eye. Was it prophetic? He strolled out, not in the direction of the
Wexton Club; but he changed his course, and was soon mounting the
stairs. There was no seat, but the man at the desk said that there were
enough players to start another game. The game was organized with four
regulars, Bodney and another fool. The regulars took twenty dollars'
worth of chips apiece; the two fools took ten, and within ten minutes
Bodney was buying more. A man got up from the other table, and Bodney
returned to his old seat, where he knew that luck waited for him. The
desk man came over to him. "That other gentleman is number one," said
he. Just then a new arrival took the seat which Bodney had vacated and
number one called out: "Let him go ahead. I'll stay here." And there,
sure enough, was the pat diamond flush. Wasn't it singular that he
should have seen it glowing upon the surface of his mind? And wasn't it
fortunate that the pot was opened ahead of him? He raised and the
opener stayed and drew one card. He bet a white chip and Bodney raised.
The opener gave him what was termed the "back wash," re-raised. Then
the beauty of the flush began to fade. Could it be that the fellow--the
very same offensive fellow, who had beaten him before--could have filled
his hand? Or, had he drawn to threes and "sized" Bodney for a revengeful
"bluff?"
"Well, I'll have to call you," said Bodney. He put in his money and the
offensive fellow showed him a ten full.
"You always beat me."
"I do whenever I can."
"But you make it a point to beat me."
"Make it a point to beat anybody."
"Well, I don't want any abuse and I won't have it."
"Play cards, boys," said the look-out.
"What's the matter with you, worms?" said the offensive fellow, looking
at Bodney.
"Play like brothers," spoke up the look-out.
At a little after eleven o'clock Bodney came down as heavy as a drowned
man. His heart was full of bitterness. He cursed the world and all
that was in it. He called on God to strike him dead. Then he swore
that there could be no God; there was nothing but evil and he was the
embodiment of it. But if he had only ten dollars he could win out. He
had won, and it was but reason to suppose that he could win again. Any
old player, imbued with the superstitions of the game, would have told
him that to go back was to lose. "I'll go over and see that druggist
again," he mused. "Strange that I have lived in this town all my life
and don't know where to get money after eleven o'clock at night. I
ought to have set my stakes better than that. And now, what excuse can
I give for coming back to borrow again so soon? Perhaps he isn't
there." Nor was he there. Bodney looked in with anxiety toward the
show case behind which he expected to see his friend, and with contempt
at the soda-water man. He thought of the envelope. He pictured himself
standing there, smiling, a few hours before--and like an arrow came the
recollection of the note directed to the preacher. He wheeled about,
rushed across the street, jostling through the crowd which was still
thick upon the sidewalk, raced around the corner, swam through another
crowd, bounded across another street just in front of a cable train,
and, breathless, panted up the stairway leading to the Wexton. Before
touching the electric button he tore open the envelope, took out the
money, destroyed the note; he touched the button and wondered if the
black porter would ever come. Undoubtedly the game must have broken up.
No, there was the black face, grim in the vitreous light. And there was
a vacant seat, his old, lucky seat.
"Bring me ten," he called, as he sat down. And addressing the look-out,
he asked if Goyle had been there. He had played a few pots after
dinner, but had quit early.
"Did he win?"
"I think he win a few dollars. Said he had an engagement on the West
Side."
"Leave me out," said a man, counting his imposing stack of chips.
"Never mind, I'll play this one." A hand had been dealt him. "But I've
got to go after this hand; oughtn't to stay as long as I do. Got to
catch a train. Who opened it?"
"I did," replied a regular.
"Raise you."
"So soon? Well, I'll have to trot you. Tear me one off the roof."
"I'll play these," said the man who had to catch a train.
"You'd better take some. He won't come round again. Well, I'll chip it
up to you."
"Raise you three."
The regular raised him back. The man who had to go raised, and the
regular fired back at him, nor did the contest end here, but when it did
end the regular spread an ace full to overcast with the shade of defeat
three queens and a pair. And the man who had been in a hurry continued
to sit there. At short intervals, during half an hour or more, he had
snapped his watch, but he did not snap it now. Trains might come and
trains might go, but he was not compelled to catch them; he lost his
last chip, bought more, lost, and, finally, accepted carfare from the
man at the desk. Bodney won, and the world threw off its sables and put
on bright attire, and at two o'clock he thought of cashing in, though
not quite even. He lacked just seventy-five cents--three red chips. He
would play one more pot. He lost, and now he was two dollars behind,
the pot having been opened for a dollar and twenty-five cents. Pretty
soon he had a big hand beaten.
"I see my finish," he said.
"You can't win every pot," replied a railway engineer, who had failed to
take out his train. "I have four pat hands beat and every set of threes
I pick up. Serves me right. Pot somebody for a bottle of beer."
"You're on," replied the dealer, a comical-looking countryman, known as
Cy. "Deal 'em lower, I can see every card," someone remarked; and just
at that moment Cy turned over a deuce and replied: "Can't deal 'em much
lower than that, can I?"
But who is this going down the stairs just as daylight is breaking? And
why is he making such gestures? It is Bodney, and he is swearing that
he will never play again.
*CHAPTER XIII.*
*WANTED TO SEE HIS SON.*
Howard had shared his father's sentiment with regard to the old office,
for then the sky was clear, but now a cloud had come the atmosphere was
changed. And on his way home to dinner, after a day spent without
progress, he formed a resolve to tell the old gentleman that he needed a
fresher and a brisker air than that blown about the ancient temple of
lore. It ought not to hurt him now since he had begun to look upon his
son with an eye so dark with censure. Even if his affection had been
withdrawn his blood-interest must surely still remain, the young man
mused; even though sentiment were dead, there must remain alive a desire
to see him prosper, and to prosper in that old place was impossible. He
believed that his father was losing his mind; years of dry opinion, of
unyielding fact and the dead weight of precedent growing heavier,
smothered his mental life.
The household, with the exception of the Judge, was at dinner, and when
Howard entered the dining room his mother arose hastily and came to meet
him. "Your father wants to see you in the office," she said, and
putting her hand on his arm, she added: "I don't know what he wants, but
no matter what it is, please bear with him--don't say anything to annoy
him."
"Has anything happened?" Howard asked.
"Something, but I don't know what. Someone called, I heard loud talking
in the office, and after the caller had gone, your father came out and
said that he wanted to see you as soon as you arrived. Be gentle with
him, dear."
The old gentleman was sitting at his desk when Howard entered the
office. He got up and for a time stood looking at the young man with no
word of explanation. "Well, sir," he said, after a time, "what will you
do next?"
"What have I done now?"
"No quibbling, sir. You know what you have done."
"I pledge you my honor I do not."
"Pledge me your what! Pledge me your old clothes, but not your honor."
"You wanted to see me, so mother says, and now I should like to know
why."
"I suppose that you are so innocent that you can't even guess. Or is it
that you are so forgetful of your deeds that you cannot remember? Why
did you send that old fool out here?"
"Send an old fool out here! I didn't send anyone."
The old man took a step toward him with his finger uplifted. His eyes
were full of anger and his finger shook, a willow in the wind. "How can
you deny it? You sent old Dr. Risbin, the morphine eater, out here to
see me."
"Oh, did he come out here? But I swear I did not send him. In fact, I
told him not to come."
"Ah, and is that the reason he came--because you told him not to? He
was never here before in his life, and why should he say that you sent
him?"
"Because he is a poor old liar, I suppose. I admit that I saw him in
his office and--"
"A gradual acknowledgment is better than no acknowledgment at all. Why
did you see him in his office, or why did you speak of me?"
"Father, if you'll only be patient with me I will tell you. Your
bearing toward me has been distressful. I was afraid that your mind--"
"Enough of that. My mind is sounder, sir, than yours will ever be.
But, suppose something were wrong. Is he the physician to consult?
Why, his mind has been dead for years. Why did you consult him if it
were not in contempt of me? I ask you why?"
"I was standing in the door of our office and happened to notice his
sign just across the hall; and I thought that as he knew you well, I
would speak to him. I soon saw that he didn't know what he was talking
about, and when he suggested that he ought to see you, I told him no,
and changed the subject. That's my offense, and I beg your pardon."
"I will try to believe you," said the Judge, sitting down. "Your office
is down town. This one is mine."
"Yes, sir, and I will not intrude. I wouldn't have come in but you
wanted--"