"Yours has, but I have something to say. I don't want to occupy that
musty old den any longer. It doesn't make any difference to me if there
are a thousand javelins of wit sticking in the walls, or a thousand
ghosts of oratory floating in the air, I can't make a living so long as
I stay in it. I don't want to be of the past, but of the present. Your
success was not a past but a present, and my present is as valuable to
me as yours was to you."
"You are at liberty to get out of that office as soon as you like. But
before you go, put up some sort of emblem expressive of your contempt of
all its memories. Stuff out a suit of old clothes with straw, a
scarecrow of the past, set it at the desk and call it--me."
"Please don't talk to me that way. I don't mean any disrespect--I want
to establish myself on a modern footing. You know that Florence and
I--"
"Don't speak of her."
"Why not? She is to be my wife."
"Not with my consent."
"Your consent is desirable, but not absolutely necessary. I don't mean
this in impudence; I mean it merely to show my--our determination. I
don't know why you should oppose our marriage, and I have no idea as to
what extent you will oppose it, but I wish to say that no extreme will
have any effect. You say that you are not ill; you swear that your mind
is not affected, and yet you refuse to tell me the cause of your change
toward me. I must have done something, either consciously or
unconsciously, and now again I beg of you to tell me what it is."
The old man leaned forward with his eyes bent upon the floor. "I have
seen great actors, but this--go away, Howard. Leave me alone."
"Am I ever to know, sir?"
The old man pointed toward the door, and Howard walked slowly out. His
mother stood in the hall. Her eyes were tearful, and taking his arm she
held it as if she would say something, but liberated him, motioned him
away, and went into the office. The Judge got up, forcing a change upon
his countenance, smiled at her, took her hand and led her to a chair.
"Now, don't be worried," said he. "I merely reprimanded Howard, as I
had a right to do, for sending an old fool, who calls himself a doctor,
out here to see me. That's all."
[Illustration: The old man pointed toward the door, and Howard walked
slowly out.]
"But what did you mean by calling him an actor? What has he done that
he should be acting now?"
"Nothing--nothing at all, I assure you."
"You said he was acting," she persisted.
"Perhaps I did, but I didn't mean it. Oh, yes, acting as if he didn't
care for the memories of the old office."
"But, dear, something has come between you and Howard. What is it?"
"Between us, my dear? Surely not. We don't agree on all points; he has
his opinions and I have mine; but there is no serious difference between
us. Come, I will show you. He and I will eat dinner together."
He led her to the dining room, where Howard sat moodily looking at the
table. He glanced up, and the Judge waved his hand with something of
his old-time graciousness. "Any callers today, Howard?" he asked,
sitting down.
"Goyle, whom I am beginning not to like, and Mr. Bradley."
"Whom you cannot help but like. A good man, conscientious and yet not
creed-bound."
"He is building up a great church," said Mrs. Elbridge. "It is almost
impossible to get a seat."
"Ah, I don't attend as regularly as I should," remarked the Judge, "but
I am going to mend my ways. Howard, shall we go together soon?"
"I shall be delighted, sir."
"Then let us appoint an early day."
The father and the son laughed with each other, and to the mother it was
as if new strings, to replace broken ones, had been put upon an old
guitar, and she was happy merely to listen; but soon she was called
away, attendant upon some duty, and then a darkness fell upon the old
man's countenance. "Enough of this," he said. And there was more than
surprise in the look which Howard gave him--there was grief in it.
"Then your good humor was assumed," he replied.
"We may assume good humor as we assume honesty--for policy," the Judge
rejoined.
"I swear I don't understand you."
"Then don't strive to do so when your mother is present. At such times,
take me as you find me."
"My pleasure just now was real. It is a grief to know that yours was
not. I was in hopes that our difference, whatever it is, for I don't
know, was at an end. You led me to believe so."
"Lay no store by what you suppose I lead you to believe. When our
difference shall reach an end, if such a thing is possible, I will tell
you."
"Then you acknowledge a difference."
"I have not denied it."
"And you will not tell what it is?"
"Now, you are mocking me. Ah, come in, my dear." Mrs. Elbridge had
returned. "Yes, we will go to hear Bradley preach. And I warrant I can
remember more of the sermon than you."
"Mr. Bradley is here now," said Mrs. Elbridge.
"Ah, is he? Did you tell him I would be in pretty soon?"
"He has come to see Agnes, I think. He asked for her."
"Ah, the sly dog. Well, he couldn't ask for a better girl. Are you
going, Howard?"
"Yes, sir, to take a walk with Florence, if she cares to go."
The Judge frowned, but his wife did not notice it. Howard did, however,
and was sorry that he spoke of his intention, but he had no opportunity
to apologize, if indeed he felt an inclination to do so. It was a
sorrow to feel that his father was set against him, but to know that he
was trying to influence the girl was more than a sorrow--it was a grief
hardened with anger. He found Florence and they went out together,
walking southward.
"How soft the air is," she said.
"Nature is breathing low."
They walked on in silence beneath the cottonwoods and elms. Laughter,
the buzz of talk and tunes softly hummed came from door-steps and
porticos where families and visitors were gathered, to the disgust of
Astors and flunkies from over the sea.
"Florence," said Howard, "before I came home this evening I was
determined to move out of that old building down town, and to get an
office in a modern building. But now I have decided upon something
else."
"To remain there out of respect for your father and his memories?"
"No. To get away from this town--out West, to build a home for you. I
hope you don't object."
"Object. I am pleased. I think it is the very wisest thing you could
do. And as soon as you are ready for me, I will go."
He took her hand and held it till, passing under a lamp, near a group of
persons on a flight of steps, he gently let it fall. "Yes, it is the
wisest thing I can do. The law is altogether different from what it was
when father was in his prime--the practice of it, I mean--and I don't
believe I could ever build up here. Oh, I might. The fact is, I don't
want to practice here. I am disheartened. The idea of a man, at his
age, turning against--do you know what he holds against me, Florence?"
"Howard, you must not ask me."
"Must not ask you? Then you know."
"Please don't ask me."
They were in the light, amid laughter and the humming of tunes, and he
waited till they reached a place where there was no one to hear, and
then he said: "If you know and love me, it would be unnatural not to
tell me."
"Howard, Peter may have denied his Lord, martyrs may have denied their
religion, but you can't deny my love."
"No, I can't; but how can you keep from me a secret that concerns me so
vitally? Do you suppose I could hold back anything from you?"
"Not if your mother were dead and you had taken an oath upon her
memory?"
"Not if God were dead and I had sworn--"
"Howard, you must not talk that way."
He was holding her hand and he felt the ripples of her agitation. "I
think I know your secret," he said. "You have cause to believe that his
mind is giving way and you don't want to distress me by confessing
it--have been sworn to silence, as if it could be kept hidden from me."
She admitted that she did not believe that his mind was sound, and he
accepted it as the secret which she had at first held back, but her
conscience arose against the deception of leaving him so completely in
the dark. "Howard, you have often said in your joking way that I have
the honor of a man."
"Yes, the honor of the Roman famed for honor. But honor can be cool, and
I need something warmer, now--love. I am, as you know, deeply
distressed at father's condition; it has changed nearly all my
plans--every plan, in fact, except the one great plan--our plan. Mother
begs me to be patient. But for what end, if there is to be no
improvement in his treatment of me? I took a hint from Uncle William,
not intended for me, that there has been insanity in the family. That's
a comforting thought, now, isn't it? Why do you tremble so?"
"Because I believe that there is truth in Uncle William's hint."
"But it should not have any effect upon our plans--our marriage."
"I would marry you, Howard, if you were a maniac."
They were in the dark, and he put his arm about her. "Then, let the
whole world go insane," he said.
The soft air murmured among the leaves of the cottonwood. A band of
happy children danced about an organ grinder in the street. A
fraudulent newsboy cried a murder in Indiana Avenue, and from afar came
as if in echo, "All about the murder on Prairie Avenue."
"Howard, knowing me as you do, and supposing that I had not told all I
know, and I were to ask you to wait, what would you say?"
"Not knowing you so well I would say, 'out with it,' but knowing you, I
would say, 'wait.' But what do you mean?"
"I mean to wait four weeks and no longer."
"Now you begin to mystify me. But we'll not think about it. I wonder
what's the trouble with George. I never saw a fellow change so. I
believe that fellow Goyle is having a bad influence on him. There is
something uncanny about that chap. Did you ever notice his eyes? They
have a sort of a draw, like a nerve. Have you noticed it?"
"I have noticed that I don't like him. He looks like a professional
spiritualist."
"I guess he is in one sense--in slate writing--guess he has most
everything put down on the slate."
"I don't know what you mean."
"Has everything charged that he can. He's a fraud, no doubt."
"Agnes says so."
"Oh, well, what Agnes says couldn't be taken as evidence. She sees a
man and has a sort of flutter. If the flutter's pleasant the man's all
right; if it isn't, he's all wrong."
"But there might be intuition in a flutter," she said.
"Yes, or prejudice. But George has always been a good judge of men. He
has excellent business sense--has invested in lots and can make a fair
profit on them at any time he cares to sell. Shall we turn back here?"
Agnes and the preacher sat in the drawing room, she flouncing about on a
sofa, and he dignified on a straight-back chair. It is rather
remarkable that a preacher is more often attracted by a mischief-loving
girl than by a sedate maiden; and this may account for the truth that
ministers' sons are sometimes so full of that quality known, impiously,
as the devil. In the early days of the English church, when the meek
parson, not permitted to hope that he might one day chase a fox or drink
deep with the bishop, and who was forced to retire to the servants' hall
when the ale and the cheese cakes came on, had cause in secret to offer
up thanks that not more than two of his sons were pirates on the high
seas. And Bradley sat there watching a cotillion of mischief dancing in
the eyes of the girl.
"You have never been connected with any church, have you?"
"Once," she replied, with a graceful flounce. "But I danced out."
"Danced out, did you say?"
"Yes. I got religion in the fall and lost it in the winter--by going to
a ball and dancing."
"Why," said the preacher, slowly, patting his knee, "that did not cause
you to lose it."
"Well, that's what they said, anyway. And I know I cried after I got
home because my religion was gone."
"It is a crime to teach such rubbish."
"Then you don't think I lost it?"
"Surely not."
"Then I must have it yet," she cried, clapping her hands.
"Miss Agnes, your purity is of itself a religion."
"I don't know about that. I am wicked sometimes--I say hateful things."
"But there is no bitterness in your soul."
"I don't know, but I think there is, sometimes. I know once I wished
that a woman was dead; but she was the meanest thing you ever saw. And
she did die not long after that and I was scared nearly to death--and I
prayed and sent flowers to the funeral. Wasn't that wicked?"
The preacher admitted that it was wayward, but he could not find it in
his inflamed heart to call her wicked. She was too engaging, too
handsome to be wicked. Nature could not so defame herself, he thought,
though he knew that there was many a beautiful flower without perfume.
But while settled love condemns, love springing into life forgives.
"Wayward," said the preacher, "Perhaps thoughtless would be a better
word."
"No, it wasn't thoughtless, because I was thinking hard all the time.
Don't you get awfully tired studying up something to preach about?"
He smiled upon her. "All work in time becomes laborious, and that is
why congregations desire young men--they want freshness. An old man may
continue to be fresh, but his brain must be wonderful and his soul must
be a garden of flowers. The wisdom of the old man often offends the
young and tires the middle-aged; human nature demands entertainment, and
the preacher who entertains while he instructs is the one who makes the
most friends and the one who indeed does the most good. The unpoetic
preacher is doomed; the gospel itself is a poem. The practical man may
not read poetry, may not understand it; but he likes it in a sermon, for
it breathes the gentleness and the purity of Christ. But poetry cannot
be laborious, cannot be dry with studied wisdom, and therefore, when a
preacher becomes a great scholar, he forgets his simple poetry and the
people begin to forget him."
"My!" exclaimed the girl, "what a sermon you have preached. And it's
true, too, I think. I know we had an old man at our church--one of the
best old men you ever saw--but they got tired of him. He--he couldn't
hold anybody. Even the old men gaped and yawned. He was giving them
dry creed. Well, a young man came along and preached for us. And it
was like spring time coming in the winter. He made us laugh and cry.
People like to cry--it makes them laugh so much better afterward. Well,
the old man had to go."
"And after a time, the young man, grown old, will have to go. We must
keep this life fresh; we must look for incentives to freshness. A
preacher ought to be the most genial of men. And his wife ought to be
genial; indeed, innocent mischief would not ill become her."
He looked at her, but she did not look at him. She was leaning back with
her eyes half closed. "I hear Mr. Howard and Agnes coming," she said.
*CHAPTER XIV.*
*A PROPOSITION TO MAKE.*
Two weeks passed, and during the time Howard busied himself with the
writing of letters to numerous real-estate men and postmasters in the
West. Sometimes he would put down his pen to muse over what Florence had
said, that she might tell him something after the lapse of four weeks,
and more than once had he spoken to her with regard to what seemed to
him as her vague information, but she had told him to wait. He knew her
well enough not to persist. One of his earliest memories was a certain
sort of stubbornness which formed a part of her character. She was
gentle and lovable, but strong. He fancied that had she been reared in
a different sphere of life she would have become a leader in the
Salvation Army.
Bodney came to the office every day, but was so restless that he rarely
remained long. Once he came to the door, saw the preacher within, and
stole away without speaking. And one afternoon Howard heard him and
Goyle tossing high words in the hall, but a few moments later they went
out, arm in arm. One morning the Judge came in. "I didn't know but you
had left this place," he said, standing near the door and looking about
to search for the old memories, Howard mused.
"No, sir. The fact is I may not move to any other office in this town."
"In this town!" the old man repeated. "What other town is there?" To a
Chicago man that ought to have established his complete soundness of
mind. "I can give you credit for all sorts of--let me say,
weakness--but I cannot see why you should be so foolish as to leave this
city."
"You came at an early day," said Howard. "I might better my prospects
by going to a town that is still in its early day."
"Um, and come back broke. You haven't stuffed that old suit of clothes
yet."
"There's time enough for that, sir?"
"What! Then you really intend to do it?"
"Didn't you command me?"
"None of your banter." The Judge walked over to the old iron safe, with
the names Elbridge & Bodney slowly rusting into the invisible past, put
his hand upon it and stood there with his head bowed. From the street
came the sharp clang of a fireman's gong, and the old man sprang back.
"There is a fire somewhere," said Howard.
"There is, sir; it is here," the Judge replied, putting his hand on his
breast. Yes, it was now only too evident that his mind was diseased.
The young man went to him, took his hand, looked into his eyes. "I beg
of you to believe that my love for you is as strong as ever. I don't
know how to humble myself, for you have taught me independence, but I
would get down on my knees to you if--" The old man threw his hand from
him and hastened from the room. In the hall he encountered the opium
eating doctor. "Why, my dear Judge, I am surprised to see you out."
"And you will be still more surprised if you don't get out of my way."
"But won't you stop a while for old-time's sake?"
"I will do nothing, sir, but attend to my own affairs, and I request you
to do the same."
"Of course, yes, of course. Well, drop in when you are passing."
The old doctor stepped up to the door of Howard's office. The young man
stood confronting him. "I have thought over what you said the other day
concerning your father, and have come to the conclusion that you are
right," said the doctor. "There is something wrong with him."
"But I wish you wouldn't irritate him. And, by the way, why did you
tell him that I told you to go out to the house?"
"Didn't you request me to go?"
"I certainly did not."
"Well, really, I misunderstood you. By the way, someone told me that
you intended to give up this office. It is a better one than mine,
having the advantage of a better view, and I don't know but I might take
it."
"I am not going to give it up yet a while."
Bodney came into the hall and the old doctor shuffled into his own den.
"I guess he wants to poison someone," said Bodney, nodding toward the
doctor's office. "Anybody with you?" he asked.
"No," Howard answered, as they both stepped into the office. "Why?"
"Oh, I am getting so I don't want to see anybody. I feel as if I were a
thousand years old," he added, dropping upon a chair.
"You don't look well, that's a fact. What seems to be the trouble?"
"I don't know. Liver, perhaps. Goyle been here today?"
"No, and I don't want him to come again. Now, look here, George, I
believe that fellow has a bad influence on you. You are not the same
man since you became so intimate with him. What's his business? What
does he do?"
"I'd rather not talk about him, Howard."
"Then his influence must be bad. Turn him over to me the next--"
"No," Bodney quickly interposed. "Let everything go along as it is till
the proper time and then--then I will attend to him. I am not in a
position now to do anything, but one of these days I am going to tell
you something that will open your eyes to the perfidy of man--man close
to you. Don't say anything more now; I am crushed. I am--"
He leaned forward with his arms on a table and his head on his arms, his
eyes hidden from the light. "Why, my dear boy," said Howard, going to
him, touching him gently, "don't look at it that way. It is not so bad
as that."
"It is worse," said Bodney, in a smothered voice. "It is worse than you
can possibly picture it. And when I tell you, you will hate me as you
never hated a human being on the earth. Don't ask me now, for I can't
tell you. Just simply don't pay any attention to me. But I beg of you
not to say a word at home. I have been led into hell, Howard, and there
is no way out."
"Oh, yes, there is, my boy. There is the door through which you went
in. Go out at it."
"I can't. You don't know."
"Are you in financial trouble? Has that fellow led you--"
"Worse than that, Howard. But I can't tell you now."
Once his long-delayed confession flowed to the very brim of utterance,
but he forced it back and sat in silence. Howard went out and Bodney
was thankful to be alone with his own misery; but he was not to be long
alone--Goyle came in.
"Why, what's the matter, old chap? You seem to be in the dumps. Come,
cheer up now. You've got no cause to be so blue? You don't see those
fellows over yonder in the bank blue, do you? I guess not. And they
are the biggest sort of robbers. I beat the horses today. And here's
thirty of what I owe you. Oh, it's coming around all right. You can't
keep a squirrel on the ground, you know."
"That's all right," replied Bodney, brightening as he took the bank
notes. "Can't keep a squirrel on the ground, but you can shoot him out
of a tree."
"But we haven't been shot out of the tree yet. Things will begin to come
our way now, you see if they don't. I've got a proposition to submit to
you that will make us both rich--regular gold mine, with not a dull
moment in it--life from beginning to end. I can't, tell you now, but
hold yourself in readiness for it. You can take that thirty and maybe
win a hundred at the Wexton. In the meantime I'll be perfecting my
plans. We shall need four or five agents, but I can get them all right,
and if we don't live in clover a bumble bee never did. Now, don't you
feel better? Look at me."
"Yes, I feel better."
"And don't you believe we'll pull out all right? Hah?" He put his hand
on Bodney's shoulder and looked into his eyes.
"Yes, I do."
"Of course you do. We have been living in the night, but the sun is
rising now. Let's go over to the Wexton and eat dinner."
"I ought to stay here till Howard comes back."
"Why, just to tell him you are going out? If you go out he'll know you
are gone, won't he?"
"You go on and I will come pretty soon. I said something to Howard just
now that I want to correct."
"All right," said Goyle. "But come over as soon as you can."
When Howard returned he found Bodney idly drawing comic pictures on a
sheet of paper. He looked at him in astonishment. "Why, what has
happened?" Howard asked.
"My fit's passed, that's all. I must have talked like a wild man."
"I rather think you did. You alarmed me--said you were worse than
ruined. What has occurred to change it all?"
Bodney laughed as he looked about, making ready to take his leave. He
was beginning to be restless, for the fever was rising fast. He turned
his eye inward to look for full hands and flushes.
"Nothing has occurred," said he. "The fit of melancholy has simply
passed. That's all." He was moving toward the door.
"Don't be in a hurry," said Howard. "There is something I want to talk
about."
"I haven't time now," Bodney replied. "I have thought of something that
must be attended to at once."
"Just a moment, George. Hasn't Goyle been here?"
"Goyle? No, not today. And, by the way," he added, turning toward
Howard, "I think I must have spoken rashly about him just now. There is
nothing wrong in his make-up; he may appear queer, but he's all right
when you come down to principle. He thinks the world of you."
"I don't want him to think anything of me."
Bodney did not stay to reply. His fever was now so strong that it would
have taken two giants to hold him. He fought his way through the crowd,
and, panting, rushed into the poker room. They greeted him with the
complimentary encouragement usually poured out upon the arrival of the
"sucker." "He'll make you look at your hole card." "Cash my chips."
"None of us got any show now." It was nearly dinner time when Bodney
sat down to the game, and when the meal was announced he was winner.
Goyle came in and sat beside him at the dinner table. "The scheme I
spoke to you about is a sure road to fortune," he said, in a low tone.
"Bank robbery?" Bodney asked, smiling with the brightness of a winner.
"No, it's not the robbery of the robbers. It is less dangerous and more
profitable--almost legitimate."
"Almost!"
"Yes--but full of sauce."
"Don't you think you'd better tell me what it is?"
"Not now. I want to see you alone--tomorrow. In the meantime make up
your mind."
"How can I make up my mind to do something that hasn't been proposed?"
"Make up your mind to agree to my plan no matter what it may be. We are
going to ride in carriages."
"Or in a police van, which?" said Bodney, smiling.
Goyle put his hand on Bodney's shoulder. "I see you are in a hurry to
get back to the game. All right, but keep your mind on my proposition."
"A proposition that hasn't been made," replied Bodney, getting up from
the table. The game was re-forming, for the poker player does not
dawdle over a meal; he eats just as a pig does--as fast as he can.
It seemed that Bodney's luck had come to stay. "You make your third man
every time," said a losing wretch whose rent was past due. A kindlier
eye might have seen through him his ragged children, but the eye of the
winner looks at his stack--no poverty and no wretchedness softens its
glitter.
The offensive fellow was there, sitting to the left of Bodney, but he
was not offensive now; defeat had subdued him; and the Professor was
present, in the darkness of hard luck, and with his air of mystery.
"You either made your hand or you didn't," he said to a man who had
drawn one card.
"You ought to know," the man replied, looking at him with a steady eye.
"You are a mind-reader."
"Yes, when there is a mind to read. I will call you." He did so and
lost his money.
"You knew what I had in my note," said Bodney. "Don't you remember,
when I met you on the corner? You said it was written with a pencil.
Why couldn't you tell what that man held--whether or not he had made his
flush?"
"Both science and psychology stop and grow dizzy when they come to
cards," the Professor replied.
Goyle came in and put his hand on Bodney's shoulder. "Slaughter 'em,"
he said. "You've got everything coming your way."
"But I don't know how long it will last," Bodney replied.
"Don't scare away your luck with mistrust. And above all, don't forget
that I have a proposition to make. Well, I'll see you tomorrow." He
went out, humming a tune. Bodney looked round to see whether he was
gone, and seemed to be relieved upon seeing him pass out. Now it was
time to quit, the slave thought. He had not counted his chips, for that
was bad luck, but he must have won nearly sixty dollars. Still the
cards kept coming, two pairs holding good, and to quit was an insult to
the goddess of good fortune. He remembered hearing a gambler say,
speaking of an unlucky player: "He stays to lose, but not to win." At
ten o'clock he felt that he had reached his limit, and counted his
chips--eighty-seven dollars. "I'll have to quit you," he said, shoving
back. And now how bright and spirited the streets were. He threw a
piece of silver upon the banner of the Salvationists.
*CHAPTER XV.*
*DID NOT TOUCH HER.*
As Howard was going out he met Bradley coming up the stairs. "I have
caught you in time," said the preacher. "I want you to go to dinner
with me--at a place off Van Buren Street, where they cater to the poor."
"It is rather a tough neighborhood for a dinner," Howard replied.
"Wouldn't you rather go to a better place?"
"No, I would rather like to see how the unfortunate dine."
They went to a restaurant that opened into an alley. The long room was
furnished with plain tables, without cloths, and not clean. There was
sand on the floor, and on the whitewashed walls, together with
Scriptural texts, against one of which some brute had thrown a quid of
tobacco, were placards which read, "Lodging ten cents." They took seats
at a table and a girl came up and put down a piece of paper, scrawled
upon with a pencil. It was a bill of fare. The price set opposite each
dish was five cents, and at the bottom it was announced that any order
included bread. The place was gradually filling up with a mottled
crowd, negroes, a sprinkle of Chinamen, Greeks, Polish Jews, tramps--and
off in a corner sat an American Indian. "The air is bad," said the
preacher.
"No worse than the bill of fare," Howard replied. "Let us get out.
Don't you see how they are eyeing us?"
"Let us at least make a pretense of eating. I like to watch these odd
pieces of driftwood."
"Washed from the wreck of humanity," said Howard.
The preacher looked at him with a sad smile. "Yes, and perhaps not all
of them are responsible for the wreck. They couldn't weather the
storm."
The crowd was noisy and profane. The preacher spoke to a waitress, a
girl with a hard, unconcerned face. "I thought that this place was
under the auspices of the gospel," said he.
She did not look at him as she replied: "I believe some sort of a church
duck did start it, but a feller named Smith runs it now."
"Then services are not held here."