"And the one called Fanny. Where is she?"
"Oh, she was too pretty and went away."
"And Julia?"
"Didn't you hear about her? Well, well. Why, the newspapers were full
of it. She left us and shortly afterward married a rich man. He took
her to his mansion and gave her everything that heart could wish, but it
did not suffice. He returned home after an absence from the city to
find a drunken crowd in his house, and he turned her out. I am so glad
to have met you again. Good-bye."
Bradley began to talk of something foreign, to lead Howard's mind away,
but the young man looked at him with a smile and said: "You see that a
palace is not even sufficient.'
"Her moral nature had not been trained," Bradley replied.
"It is not that, Mr. Bradley. Her miserable little head had not been
trained. Morality without intellectual force is a weakness waiting for
a temptation."
"Don't say that, Howard; it is a monstrous thought. Brain is not the
whole force of this life. There is something stronger than brain. Love
is stronger."
"Yes, it overturns brain. And I will not argue against it, though it
might be the cause of thousands of wretched feet on our thoroughfares
tonight. It is a glory or a disgrace. But we have been moralists long
enough. Let us go home."
*CHAPTER XVI.*
*WITH AN EAR TURNED TOWARD THE DOOR.*
Mrs. Elbridge met Howard and the preacher in the hall. She told them
that the girls had gone to a meeting of the Epworth League, a short
distance away. They had gone to a religious gathering held in the
interest of the young, but the preacher felt a deadening sense of
disappointment. "They will be back soon," said Mrs. Elbridge, seeming to
divine the effect her information had made upon him. Howard heard his
father and Uncle William talking in the office. "We will wait for the
girls in here," he said, leading the way into the drawing room. Mrs.
Elbridge went in to tell the Judge, and shortly afterward entered the
drawing room with him. The old gentleman paid no attention to Howard,
but warmly shook hands with Bradley, as if he had not seen him only a
few hours before.
"Delighted to see you, Mr. Bradley."
Howard glanced at his mother and she read a communication in his eye.
It was that in the old man's enthusiasm there was added evidence of
mental weakness. The Latin may express delight at seeing one a dozen
times a day, but with an Anglo-Saxon more than one "delight" within
twenty-four hours is an extreme.
Bradley looked embarrassed. He said that he was glad to see the Judge,
which was hardly true, as he was not prepared at that moment to be glad
or even pleased. His heart had gone over to the Epworth League, not to
worship God, but one of God's creatures, which, after all, is a
pardonable backsliding. He remarked that he and Howard had encountered
quite an adventure, giving it in detail, but to avoid any moralizing,
having had enough of that for one evening, hastened to change the
subject, asking if Mr. William had become any nearer settled as to his
dates. This brought a flow of good humor. The Judge looked toward the
door. "He has so far improved," said he, "as to admit that at times he
may possibly be wrong. I asked him if it were possible to be right, and
then we had our battle to fight over again." He offered the preacher a
cigar, but ignored his son. The mother noticed it and sighed. Howard
smiled at her sadly, and shook his head. Bradley took the cigar
abstractedly and after holding it for a time, offered it to Howard, who
declined it. The Judge glanced at him but said nothing. William came
in. "John," said he, after speaking to Bradley, "I saw old Bodsford this
morning."
"Not old Bill Bodsford."
"Yes, sir, old Bill."
"I thought he died years ago."
"No, he has been out in Colorado. I haven't seen him since
seventy-eight."
"Are you sure?" the Judge asked, winking at Bradley.
"I ought to know. I met him in St. Louis in
seventy-eight--seventy-eight or seventy-nine--in July, about the fifth."
"About the fifth. How can a date be about the fifth?"
"I mean that it was either the fourth, fifth or sixth. He told me then
that he was on his way to New Orleans, by boat. It was during that
intensely hot weather when so many people were sun--but that was in
seventy-nine, wasn't it?"
"I don't remember," said the Judge, winking at Howard by mistake and
then frowning to undeceive him.
"Yes, I think it was."
"Seventy-nine," said the preacher, at a venture.
"Then I couldn't have seen old Bill in seventy-eight. But I saw him
today--and he looks like a grizzly bear. And he didn't seem to be in
very good circumstances. But the last time I saw him before that--"
"In seventy-nine," interrupted the Judge.
"Well, I'm not so sure about that, John. Let me see. I was in St. Paul
and went from there directly to St. Louis. Yes. Now, I haven't been in
St. Paul but once since seventy-eight and that was year before last.
Went directly to St. Louis. It must have been seventy-eight, John.
Yes, it was."
"Well, go ahead with your story," said the Judge.
"Oh, it's no story. I was simply telling you when I met old Bill the
last time."
"And is that all there is to it?"
"All! Isn't it enough? I didn't start to tell a story and you know it
well enough. Look here, Howard," he added, turning upon the young
lawyer, "are you fixing to jump on me, too?"
"Not at all, Uncle Billy."
"Oh, Uncle Billy, is it? Then I know you've got it in for me. Mr.
Bradley, I studied for the ministry--not very hard, I admit--but I
studied, and I am sorry sometimes that I didn't go so far as to put on
the cloth. It would have at least protected me from ridicule."
Bradley smiled upon him in a lonesome sort of way, with his ear turned
toward the front door, listening for the coming of Agnes. The family
joke, so eternally green for the Judge, was but dry grass to him. His
soul was panting for the sweet waters of love, the babbling brook of a
girl's delightful mischief. But the mind can talk shop while the soul
is panting. "You no doubt would have added strength to our profession,"
he said. "I call it profession in want at the present moment of a
better term. Why did you give up your intention? Not want of faith, I
hope."
Mrs. Elbridge shook her head as if to imply that there could be no want
of faith in one connected with her family. "Well, I don't know," said
William. "But the scheme, if I may so express it, struck me as being
not exactly useless, but, let us say, hopeless."
"Hopeless," echoed the preacher.
"Yes. The warfare has been going on nearly two thousand years, and the
victory is not yet in sight."
"At what date did it begin?" the Judge asked.
William began to puff up. "Now, look here, John, this is a serious
discussion. Is it possible that there is nothing serious except in the
law, in the names of your old clients? Do you keep everything serious
shut up in your safe?"
The Judge's countenance changed, like the sudden turning down of a
light, and he made a distressful gesture. "Don't, William; don't say
that."
"Why, what did I say to shock you so?"
The Judge got up and slowly walked back into his office. William looked
at Mrs. Elbridge. "Rachel, did I say anything?"
"He isn't well, William, and we never know what is going to displease
him. But he means nothing by it, Mr. Bradley," she added. "Sometimes
he begins to joke in its old way, but it has been long since we heard
his laugh in its old heartiness. I wish you would talk to him, Mr.
Bradley. I know he is not well, but he won't permit a doctor to come
near him."
The preacher assured her that he would. He did not believe that there
was any serious trouble; it was the strain of former years now claiming
its debt of his constitution. "Nature does not forget," said he. "But
nature may be humored. I have noticed a change in him, but I am
inclined to think that he is gradually improving."
Howard was silent, though the minister looked at him at the conclusion
of his speech as if expecting some sort of reply. "He doesn't forget
about my dates, no matter how much of a change he has undergone," said
William. "But, as to our discussion: I read some little in those days,
and my mind led me into bogs and swamps--into doubts, if I may say so.
It seemed to me that the whole plan was marked out and couldn't be
changed. I remember having come across this startling question: 'If man
can make his own destiny; if he can, by his own free will, arrest the
accomplishment of the general plan, what becomes of God?' That struck
me, sir, like a knockout blow."
"And yet," said Howard, "you say that the French have a slop which they
call literature."
"What! I said so? Well, what if I did?"
"You have quoted Balzac."
"Have I? But, sir, do you appoint yourself to preside over my
conscience?"
"I didn't say anything about your conscience, Uncle Billy."
"Oh, no, but you Uncle Billy me into a broil, that's what you do."
The preacher's mind had caught the quotation, relating as it did to the
shop, and he smiled as he said: "I am afraid, Uncle William, that the
young man has read too much for us. In an argument he is a porcupine
with sharp quills."
"A pig with the bristles of impudence," said William, and smiled an
apology to the mother.
"Nevertheless," remarked the preacher, returning to the subject, "I
don't see how the eye of faith could have been dimmed by such a mote.
Conscience--"
"Meaning education," Howard interrupted.
The minister bowed to Howard, but continued to address himself to
William. "Conscience ought to have pointed out the good you could do.
You could at least have gone to a foreign country--"
"Or off Van Buren Street," said Howard.
Bradley braced himself for a debate. Alone with Howard he might have
said, "let it pass," but in the presence of a woman, a believer in his
faith, a preacher must not shun a controversy. It would be an
acknowledgment of the strength of the doubt and of the weakness of
faith. So he braced himself against the wall of creed, and with polemic
finger raised was about to proceed when he heard the front door open.
"The girls," said Mrs. Elbridge, glad enough to break in.
"So soon?" remarked Bradley, looking at his watch and meaning so late.
Florence and Agnes came in, laughing. Bradley got up with a bow. "You
here?" said Agnes, and then corrected herself by saying that she was
pleased to see him there. "I never know how anything is going to sound,"
she continued, throwing her hat on a sofa. "It's all improvisation with
me. I never saw as awkward a man in my life--" Bradley looked at her
with such a start that she hastened to exclaim: "Oh, not you, Mr.
Bradley--the young man who walked home with us. I couldn't for the life
of me get it out of my head that he wasn't on stilts." She sat down on
the sofa. Bradley made bold to go over and sit down beside her, taking
up her hat, looking about for some place to put it and ending by holding
it on his knees, awkwardly pressing them together. He felt that Howard
was laughing at him; he knew that Agnes was. But she didn't offer to
take the hat. Florence, however, relieved him, and then everyone
laughed except William. The preacher had been placed in an awkward
position, though anyone might have made a grace of it--anyone but a man
whom custom almost forces to adopt solemnity as a badge of office; and
William gave Howard credit for it all. In certain humors he would have
charged the young man with a rainy day, a frost or a cold wind. He
looked at him in his reproachful way and cleared his throat.
"What is it now, Uncle William?" Howard asked.
"Oh, don't ask me. You ought to know."
"But I don't. I haven't said a word or done a thing that you should
give me the bad eye."
"Rachel," said the old man, "it seems to me that the more he reads the
more slang he uses. The 'bad eye!' That belongs to the police court."
"Then it is not a quotation from Balzac."
"Never you mind about quotations. I have quoted before you were
born--and I knew, sir, from what source. But I won't stay to be
browbeaten. I will leave you."
"By the way," Howard called after him, "if you want a pipe of good
tobacco step into my room. You'll find a fresh can on the table."
"I don't want any of your tobacco, sir; I don't want anything you've
got."
Bradley might have thought that in this family the joke was overworked,
that is, had he been prepared to think anything. But he was not. His
mind was aglow from the light beside him, and his ideas, if at that
moment he had any, were as gold fishes in a globe, swimming round and
round.
Florence went to the piano. Howard stood beside her. Mrs. Elbridge
went out. It was time, and she knew it. William appeared at the door.
"I thought you said that your tobacco was on the table in your room.
What right have you got--what cause have I ever given you to deceive me
in that way?"
"You said you didn't want any of my tobacco."
"You said it was on the table. Of course I don't want it--I wouldn't
have it."
"You just wanted to see where it was."
"I don't care anything about it, sir. I want you to understand that as
you go along."
"All right, but the can of tobacco, I remember now, is in the closet on
the shelf."
William went away, and the young man knew that in the morning his
tobacco can would be empty. Florence played the air of a slow, old love
song, and between the notes fell the soft words, her own and Howard's;
they looked into each other's eyes, eyes so familiar to both, eyes they
could no more remember first seeing than we can remember the first sky,
the first star--love as old as recollection and as young as the moment.
There is one thing we can always say, and Bradley said it: "I shall miss
you when you are gone."
"I'm not gone yet," Agnes replied.
"I hope you are not getting tired of us."
"Tired?" She raised her eyes and he looked into them, into the depth of
their blue mystery. "No, I am having lots of fun."
"Fun! Is that all?"
"Isn't that enough? That's all I want."
"But life is not all fun."
"No?" She raised her eyes again.
"Life is serious," he said. "The greatest joy is serious; the greatest
happiness comes to the heart when the heart is solemn."
"Oh, I don't think so. I cry when I'm serious."
"There is joy in a tear."
"Not in mine."
He did not hear the front door open. For him all the world had come in.
He did not hear a step at the door. Bodney came in. Florence left off
playing and turned about on the stool. Bradley arose and shook hands
with him, said that he was glad to meet him, and lied. He would not at
that moment have been glad to see the glory promised to the faithful.
But he lied, as we all of us are compelled to lie, for to lie at times
is the necessary martyrdom of the conscience. Bodney's face was bright
and his laugh was gay. "You are as merry as a serenade," said Florence.
"As happy as a lark," he replied. The love-making was spoiled. Bradley
said that it was time to take his leave. Bodney followed him to the
door, and beneath the hall light handed him a bank note, apologizing for
not having sooner returned the loan of ten dollars.
"But you have given me twenty," said Bradley.
"Have I? Then give the extra ten to the church."
*CHAPTER XVII.*
*LYING ON THE SIDEWALK.*
Bradley lived in Aldine Square. By the light of the first gas lamp he
looked at his watch and found that it wanted but three minutes to
midnight. At the corner of the street he waited for a cross-town car,
but as none was within sight, he walked on, thinking little of the
distance home, which was not great, for his mind was on Agnes. He had
not decided that she would make a good wife, but he knew that he would
ask her to marry him. He believed that his happiness depended upon her
decision. This is a conclusion reached by nearly every man. His salary
was not large, for his church was poor, but it was growing rich in
numbers and that meant a popularity insuring larger pay. But why should
he consider his income? They could live happily in Aldine Square. It
was a charming place, and so romantic that one would scarcely expect to
find it in Chicago. It might have been a part of Paris. It was come
upon suddenly, its gate, with two great posts of stone, opening into the
street. There was a plastered wall, and it looked as if it had been
built for ages. Through the gate, which was always left open, the view
was attractive--there were trees, shrubbery, flowers, a pool, a fountain
and a carriage drive. It would charm Agnes.
The street was deserted, with the exception of a straggler here and
there, turned out of a saloon. "Vice shutting its red eye," he mused, as
one place closed its door. Looking ahead he saw a man leaning against a
lamp post. As Bradley came up the man, stepping out, said: "Mister,
will you please tell me what time it is?"
Bradley halted and took out his watch, and, holding it so as to catch
the light, was about to tell him when the man snatched the watch, broke
the chain and fled down an alley. The preacher shouted after him, ran a
short distance down the alley, but, realizing that pursuit was folly, if
not dangerous, returned to the street and continued his way homeward,
the piece of chain dangling from his pocket. He thought of going to the
nearest station to report the robbery, but his mind flew back to Agnes.
How delicious it would be to have her all to himself, sitting by the
fountain in the summer air. The perfume of the flowers would be
sweeter, the falling of the water more musical. They would read together
till the twilight came, read silly books, if she preferred them; and in
the twilight they would read a book in which God had written--the book
of their own hearts. And in cold weather they would sit in the warm
light, at the window, and look out upon the little park, the shrubbery
covered with snow, the statuary of winter. He would never seek to
change the current of her mind. Nature had fashioned it a laughing
rivulet and it should never be a sighing wave. With her in the
congregation he could be more eloquent, touch more hearts through his
love for her; he would be more akin to the young, for her love would be
as a stream of youth constantly flowing into his life. Nature might
have shown her power in the creation of man, but surely her glory in the
creation of woman. He drew a contrast between Florence and Agnes.
Florence was stronger, and had more dignity; but, of course, he believed
that Agnes was more affectionate, and love was more beautiful than
strength.
He turned into the street leading to the Aldine gate. And how quiet
everything was. It was a love night, the leaves murmuring. But, what
was that lying on the sidewalk in front of the gate? A woman. He stood
looking down at her. Could she have been murdered. The light was not
strong, but he could see that she was not ill dressed. She was lying on
her right side. He touched her shoulder and she turned upon her back
with a moan. He leaned over her and caught the fumes of liquor. But he
got down upon his knees, raised her head and spoke to her.
"What are you doing here, poor girl?" he said. The light falling upon
her face showed that she was young. She moaned and mumbled something.
He asked her where she lived, but she could not tell him.
"I don't know what to do with you," he said.
"Don't leave me," she mumbled.
"I will be back in a moment," he said, placing her with her back against
the wall. Then he ran to the fountain, wet his handkerchief, and
returning with it dripping, bathed her face. It was hot and feverish.
The cold handkerchief appeared somewhat to revive her.
"Don't you know where you live?"
"I can't--don't know the number."
"Nor the street?"
"Nothing."
Again he bathed her face, and taking his hat fanned her with it. "How
did you come here?"
"They must have left me."
"Then you were with someone."
"Yes--three."
"Where had you been?"
"Wine room. Don't turn me over to the police. I won't go there again."
"Can't you remember now where you live?"
"It is a long ways from here--over on the West Side. I won't go there
in this fix. I would rather die."
"Then I don't know what to do."
"Don't turn me over to the police," she moaned.
He stood with his hat in his hand, looking up and down the street. From
the corner came the whack of the policeman's club against a lamp post.
Not far away the fountain splashed its music. "Can you walk?" he asked.
"I'll try. But where are you going to take me?"
"To my home."
"No," she cried piteously. "I don't want a woman to see me this way."
"No woman is there to see you. Come on."
He led her along, supporting her with his arm. He did not look to see if
there were any windows lighted about the square; he did not think of
scandal; he thought of the poor thing heavy upon his arm, not as a
preacher, but as a man. He carried her up the stone steps, unlocked the
door and went into the hall, into the red light falling from the lamp.
Up the stairs he led her, into a front room, striking a match as he
entered, lighted the gas and eased her down upon a chair. She was
deathly pale.
"Let me lie down," she said.
He pointed to the bed, stepped out into another room and drew the
portieres. Then he lay down upon a sofa, not to think of what he had
done, but of Agnes.
He was awakened by the housekeeper's tap upon the door. "Come in," he
called, and as she entered he thought of the woman. The housekeeper was
fat and full of scandal. She walked straightway to the portieres and
drew them aside to enter the room, and started back with a gasp of
surprise.
"My sister," said Bradley. "She came on a late train, and is going out
early. Don't disturb her. She brought me bad news from home, and must
go on further to see my other brother. She could not explain by
telegraph. It involves the settling of an estate."
He was now standing beside the housekeeper and could see into the
adjoining room. The girl, with a remnant of modesty, had drawn the
covering over her.
Two days later, Sunday, at the close of services, a woman came forward,
held out her hand to Bradley and said: "I want you to pray for me."
Her face was pale and there was true repentance in her eyes. "You are
my sister," Bradley replied, and this time he did not believe that he
had told a falsehood. She went out, with tears on her cheeks; and a
lady who had come up to compliment the preacher on his sermon, asked:
"Who is that girl?"
"I don't know her name."
"She met me just as I was coming in," said the lady, "and was anxious as
to whether or not this was your church. She was evidently not looking
for denominations."
She was not. She was looking for something nearer God--a man.
*CHAPTER XVIII.*
*MADE HIS PROPOSITION.*
The farmers have a saying to illustrate restlessness: "Like a hen on a
hot griddle." And Bodney thought of it the next day, as he sat about
the office waiting for the noon hour, for the game did not start before
then. He tried to read, but the words were as the echo of a pot that
had been played. He attempted to write, but called it a misdeal. How
swift was life, viewed from the window, and yet how slow time was,
limping, halting, standing still, boulders between minutes and mountains
between hours. Surely his watch was slow. No, for a bell confirmed it
in its record of the forenoon's slothfulness. He thought of Goyle, and
wondered why he did not come to make his proposition, if it were so
important. He went out to walk in the cool air blowing from the lake,
and the Wexton stairs arose before him. He rang the bell, and, standing
there waiting for the grim face of the porter, reminded himself of an
old horse at a stable door. Inside they were cleaning up, sweeping,
dusting, getting ready for another day and another night. From off in a
bedroom came the snoring of a man who had gone to sleep, drunk and
broke; but the porter would bid him a pleasant good-morning and would
give him a drink from a bottle kept in ice all night. Bodney sat down
at a window and took up a newspaper and glanced at the report of a
committee appointed to investigate gambling in Chicago. Numerous
witnesses had been summoned, some of them connected with the poker
clubs; and in a vague way they admitted under oath that they might have
seen men playing cards for money, but could not recall exactly where.
"I am looking for a fool," said the Legislature. "What do you want with
him?" the Governor asked. "I want to put him on an investigative
committee," the Legislature replied. "For the city?" the Governor
inquired. "Yes," answered the Legislature. "Then," said the Governor,
"take the first countryman you come to."
Men with borrowed money burning in their pockets began to arrive, and
each one was asked by an earlier comer if he wanted to play poker, and
though he had shouldered his way through the crowd to get there, fearing
that he might not find a vacant seat, he answered in a hesitating way,
"Well, I don't know; haven't got much time--might play a little while."
It was a part of the hypocrisy of the game, recognized by all and
practiced by all.
The noon meal was munched and the game began. Opposite Bodney sat a man
whose liquor lapped over from the previous day. One eye was smaller
than the other, and on one cheek, red and flaming, was a white scar. He
drew to everything, won from the start and was therefore offensive.
Bodney opened a pot on a pair of aces. All passed but the man with the
white scar, who said that he would stay. "You are a pretty good
fellow," he remarked to Bodney. "I'll help you along." Bodney drew
three cards and caught his third ace. The white scar drew two cards.
Bodney, to lead him on, bet a chip.
"Well," said the scar, "I had a pair of sixes and an ace here. I'll go
down now and see if I helped, and I won't bet you unless I have. Well,
I'll have to raise you three dollars."
"Raise you three," said Bodney.
"You must have helped. Still, we never know. Ain't that so, Jim?"
Jim said that it was so, and the scar, as if pleased and reassured in
thus finding his view confirmed, raised Bodney.
It was wrong to take a drunken man's money; it was robbery, but it was
poker, and Bodney raised him.
"Well, you play two pairs pretty hard, and I don't believe you can beat
three sixes. Raise you." Then Bodney began to study. "I'll call you,"
he said.
"I drew to three little diamonds," said the fellow, "and caught a
flush." He spread his hand. Bodney swore. "I never played with a
drunken man that he didn't beat me."
The fellow looked up at him as he raked in the pot. "Have to do it. My
pew rent's due. Ain't that right, Jim?"
"That's right," said Jim.
Bad ran into worse and rounded up in a heap of disaster. At three
o'clock, just as the game was getting good, as someone remarked, Bodney
went out, feeling in his pockets. This becomes a habit with the poker
fool. He continues to search himself long after he has raked up the
lint from the bottom of his pockets. In the street the air was stagnant
and the sunshine was a mockery. At several places he tried to borrow
money, but failed; his former accommodater, the druggist, told him that
he had a note to meet and could not spare it. He was sorry, he said.
Bodney went out, muttering that he was a liar. He went to the office
and found the door locked. Howard was not there, and he could hide
himself, the peacock whose tail feathers had been pulled out. But
before going into the office he thought of the old doctor across the
hall, and hesitated. Perhaps he had money, and, having ruined his mind,
might be fool enough to lend it. The doctor was pleased to see him. He
was astonished to find Bodney so much interested in his affairs, and he
wondered if a spirit of reformation had come upon the youth of the land.
Bodney said that of late he had begun to hear much of the old man's
skill as a physician. The old man turned a whitish smile upon him and
listened like a gray rat, bristles resembling feelers sticking out on
his lip. And after a time Bodney asked if he would be so kind as to
lend ten dollars till the following morning? He was sorry, but could
not. That part of the mind which takes account of money is the last to
suffer from disease.
Bodney went into the office to wait for something, he did not know what.
He thought of Bradley, and wondered if he could find him. Just then he
discovered the something he had been waiting for. Goyle came in.
"Halloa, old man," said Goyle. "I went up to the club just now to look
for you and they told me that you had gone down stairs."
"Down stairs broke," Bodney replied.
"That's all right," said Goyle.
"It's not all right. I'm broke, I tell you; and a man that's broke is
all wrong."
"He may think so. I'm glad you are broke." He put his hand on a table,
leaned forward, and gazed into Bodney's eyes.
"Glad," said Bodney, blinking.
"Yes, glad. It teaches you the need of money. You are forced to shove
back your chair, to give your place to a brute standing behind you. You
see the deal go on. You are frozen out, but no one cares. That game is
life, the affairs of man epitomized; you put in your last chip, you
lose, and you have failed in business. A fellow who hasn't one-tenth
the education has succeeded. He stacks up the chips that you have
bought, and for consolation he says that chips have no home. Am I
right?"
"Yes, you are. But I want to get back into the affairs of man. Let me
have ten dollars."
"Two weeks from now I can give you ten thousand. Listen to me. Wait a
moment." He closed the door, came back, drew a chair in front of
Bodney, sat down and leaned forward. "Now, I will submit my
proposition."
"I don't know that I can entertain any proposition. I am in too
desperate a fix to go into any sort of an enterprise. My blood is full
of fever. I've got this gambling mania on me and I'm tempted to cut my
throat. One evening you took me to a supper that was not to cost
anything. It has cost everything, all the money I had, my honor, my
future, my--"
"That's rot, George. I introduced you to a supper that gave you
experience--real knowledge of the world. You have met men without their
dress-coats--you know man as he is and not as he says he is. You were
blind and I opened your eyes to the fact that money is not the reward of
the honest and industrious. It is the agent of hell, and must be won by
means of the devil. You ought to have been a rich man. If there'd been
any foresight you would have been. And whose fault was it that the
opportunity slipped? Not yours. Now to my plan. Look at me. Child
stealing."
"What!" Bodney exclaimed.
"I have laid my wires. We will steal children and gather in thousands
of dollars in reward for restoring them to their parents. Hold on.
Look at me. We will steal from the rich, for that is always legitimate.
We will have our agents stationed here and there--we will--"
"Infamous scoundrel, I could cut your throat. I wish to God I had."
"Sit down and listen to me."
"I won't sit down. I will stand and look you in the eye, you scoundrel.
Don't put your hand on me. Stand back, or I'll knock you down."
Goyle sneered at him. "You can't hit me. I am your master. Now,
listen to me. I am going over into Michigan to establish a--post, I'll
call it. And when I come back, you will join me. I present a plan by
which you can get out of all your difficulties, and you turn on me. Is
that the way to treat a benefactor? I have settled upon our first
enterprise. Every day a nurse and child are at a certain place in
Lincoln Park. The father is dead and the mother is rich. The child, I
have found from the nurse, is a boy. I am engaged to marry her. While
I am walking with her you steal--"
Bodney struck him in the mouth--struck him with all the force of
disgrace and despair. He fell and the blood flowed from his mouth. He
did not get up; he lay with his head back, and Bodney thought that he
saw death in his half-closed eyes. He touched him with his foot and
spoke to him, but he did not move. Someone knocked at the door, and
without a tremor Bodney opened it, expecting to find Howard. The old
doctor stood in the hall. "I am sorry I refused to let you have the
money," he said. "And now, if you assure me that--"
[Illustration: Bodney struck him in the mouth.]
"I am obliged to you," Bodney broke in, "but I do not need it. I wanted
to gamble with it, but I have quit gambling. I have overthrown the
evil. Here," he added, taking the old man's arm and leading him into the
room. "There it lies bleeding," he said, pointing. "Perhaps it needs
your assistance. I must bid you good day." He walked out, leaving the
old man alone with Goyle.
"What are you smiling at?" asked an acquaintance who met him in the
street.
"Was I smiling?"
"Yes, like a four-time winner."
"I am at least a one-time winner," Bodney replied. He stepped into a
drug store to get a cold drink, his friend's place, he noticed after
entering. The druggist came forward and thus spoke to him: "I was sorry
after you went out that I didn't let you have ten dollars. I found that
I had more than enough to meet the note. I can let you have it now."
Bodney shook his head. "No, I thank you--I don't care for it. I have
quit borrowing."
"I hope you don't feel offended."
"Not at all. I am grateful to you for not lending it to me."
Late in the evening he went back to the office. No one was there, but
soon the negro janitor came in and pointed to a damp spot on the floor.
"I have washed up the blood where the man fainted and fell," he said.
"The doctor brought him to all right, and there's a note on the table he
left for you."
Bodney opened the note and read: "I leave for Michigan, and will be back
within a few days. I don't blame you as much as I do myself. I
permitted you to break away from me, but you will come back and at last
be thankful. Goyle."
*CHAPTER XIX.*
*THE GIRL AGAIN.*
Bodney's "breaking away" from Goyle had taken place on the day following
the night when Bradley had been robbed of his watch, and two days before
the girl appeared in church to ask for prayers. On the Monday following,
about noon, she appeared again, this time at Bradley's lodgings. The
housekeeper answered her ring at the bell. "Ah," she said, "come in.
You are Mr. Bradley's sister, I believe. I didn't see you but a moment,
but I think I recognize you."
"Is Mr. Bradley here?" the girl asked.
"No, your brother has gone out. I think you can find him over at Judge
Elbridge's. I don't know exactly where it is, but some place on Indiana
Avenue. Anyone can tell you. I hope you haven't any more bad news for
him."
The girl was shrewd and did not betray herself. "No," she said, and went
away. Bradley was in the Judge's drawing room with Agnes when a servant
came in to tell him that a young woman at the door wished to see him.
"Oh, a young woman," cried Agnes, pretending to pout. "Some girl you
have been talking sweet to, I warrant." He had risen to go out, but he
halted to lean over and say to her, "I have never talked sweet, as you
term it, to anyone--except--"
"This one," Agnes broke in. "Oh, go on. Don't let me detain you."
"Probably someone connected with the church--"
"Of course, they always are. Go on, please."
"I will tell you all about her when I come back."
"Oh, don't mind me. Here's Florence. She knows I don't care. Do
please go on."
Bradley went out, and not with a light heart, for his love had now
entered into the stew and fretful state. The girl stood in the hall,
and in the dim light he did not recognize her till she spoke. She
handed him a small package.
"What is this?" he asked.
"It is yours."
"My what?"
"Your watch."
It was some time before he could speak. All ideas were as dust blown
about his mind. "You don't mean to say that--you couldn't have taken
it--you--"
"Let me go where I can talk to you--outside."
He went out with her and together they walked along the street. Looking
back, he saw Agnes at the window, and he waved his hand at her. She
made a face at him, he thought. "Now, what is it you have to say?"
"You know a man named Goyle?" she said.
"Yes, I have met him at the Judge's house."
He waited for her to proceed. "I was with him and two others the night
you found me. They left me on the sidewalk because I could not go
further, I have been told. Goyle went away alone and snatched your
watch."
"But, my gracious, how do you know? Did he tell you?"
"For some time he has been coming to see me. He was the first man I ever
went with to--a place where I should not have gone. I blush to own it,
but I was fascinated by him. He asked me to marry him, and I consented.
The last time he came after that night was yesterday evening. But you
had taught me to despise him. I could not drive him away, however, so I
sat in the room with him. His mouth had been hurt--two of his teeth were
gone. He said he had fallen off a car. He said also that as soon as he
got a little better he was going to Michigan. He took out his watch,
one that I had never seen him have before, and I noticed that it had a
broken chain. Then I remembered seeing a broken chain hanging from your
pocket; and the next morning before I left your house I thought I heard
you tell someone that your watch had been snatched from you. I asked
him to let me see the watch, and in it I found your name. I did not
return it to him--I jumped up and ran out. He called after me, and
tried to catch me, but I slammed a door in his face and locked it. Then,
my mother, who never did like him, ordered him out of the house."
"What is your name?"
"Margaret Frayer."
"Then, Margaret Frayer, I am sorry you brought me the watch."
"Sorry?"
"I did not wish a reward for what I had done for you."
"Oh, that--the watch is not your reward. You have saved a soul. In my
heart I believe that I have found peace. I went to sleep with a prayer
on my lips, and I awoke with such a joy in my heart that I was
frightened. I called mother and she came running into the room, and
there must have been a spirit there, for before I said a word, and
before mother had seen me, for it was dark, she cried out that I was
saved. She had always been worried over me; she feared that my soul was
lost. And she put her arms about me and sobbed in her happiness. That
is your reward, Mr. Bradley."
"Come back to the house with me," he said.
He led her into the drawing room and introduced her to Florence and
Agnes. "I wish to present a young woman whom God has smiled upon," he
said, and they looked at him in astonishment. He told them that he had
found her wandering and had led her home. Florence took her hand.
"I may not be worthy, yet," said Margaret Frayer. "You don't know me
well enough to take my hand."
"I know that you must have suffered, and that is enough," Florence
replied. The preacher looked at Agnes. He wondered why she did not
come oftener to his church. He wondered what she would say to the young
woman.
"You are my sister," said Agnes, as if inspired, and Bradley clasped his
hands and pressed them to his bosom. His heart was full.
Margaret Frayer did not remain long. "You may meet me again," she said.
"She is to become a member of my church," Bradley spoke up.
"My heart and my prayers will be with your church, Mr. Bradley," she
said; "I shall remember you and be grateful to you as long as I live,
but my soul tells me to go with the Salvation Army, among girls, and
persuade them to work in the street when they have the time. It is not
goodness alone that saves us, Mr. Bradley; goodness may be selfish--it
is saving others that saves us. You know how that is. You have saved
others."
"You are right," he said. "Go with the army; you can do more there."
"And, do you say so?" Florence cried. "I thought you too orthodox for
that."
"Not too orthodox for the truth," he replied, bowing.
"Then," said Florence, "I think more of you than I did. I thought it
was your ambition to build up a church, but I find that you have
forgotten your creed to save a woman. I am coming oftener to hear you
preach."
During this time Margaret Frayer stood near the door, waiting, it
seemed, for an opportunity to go. The preacher looked at her, and mused
upon the change that had come over her face since he had first seen her,
only a short time, but a great change. The Salvation Army has a
countenance and a complexion peculiarly its own, serene and pale; and so
quick, it seems, is the transformation that the coarse-featured,
evil-eyed woman of today may, to-morrow, have a striking refinement. "I
hope you will come frequently to my church," said Bradley, taking her
hand.
"Whenever I am selfish," she replied.
"You young ladies have done yourselves credit," said Bradley, when
Margaret Frayer had taken her leave.
"Why so?" said Agnes. "Because we treated her kindly? Did you take us
for heathens?"
"Oh, no, but women--women are so slow to forgive."
"Forgive? Why, what has she done? She simply wanted religion, and you
have helped her. Oh, she might have done wrong, I don't know. But
women are more forgiving now that they have taken more of man's
privileges. They may become quite generous after a while." With Agnes
it was innocence; with Florence it was knowledge. She divined the
history of the girl; and in giving her hand felt that it was to one who
had gone astray, who had suffered, and who had turned back. The Judge
came in, to the disappointment of the preacher, who feared that, soon to
be followed by William, the old jurist would begin anew to stir up the
old straw of family humor. But William did not come, and the Judge was
in no mood for joking. He had been brooding, and his brow was dark.
"Florence," he said, after exchanging a few words with Bradley, "I wish
you would walk out with me." She said nothing, but went out and came
back with her hat. They walked in the shade of the elms, and he
remarked upon different objects, but she said nothing.
"Why don't you talk, Florence?"
"Because I haven't anything to say."
"You mean that you have nothing to say to me."
"I mean that it is useless to say anything to you. Shall I say
something? I will. You are an unnatural father."
"No, I have an unnatural son."
"That is not true, Judge. Anyone to see him, to hear him talk, to know
him, would feel that he could not commit such a crime. Why, sometimes
when I am alone it almost exasperates me to think about it; and to
realize that I am in a conspiracy against him. It is cruel, and at
times I fancy that I am almost as unnatural as you are."
"To be bound by an oath? Is that unnatural? Is it unnatural to have
honor? I told you in the first place to protect you; I bound you by
oath to protect her, his mother. That is simple enough."
"But you don't know how near I have come to the violation of that oath.
More than once I have had it in my heart to tell him--but I couldn't,"
she broke off. "I couldn't. But he is going away, and I will write it
to him, every detail of it; and I know that he will forgive me."
"You make me the criminal when I am the injured. Let us go back."
*CHAPTER XX.*
*THE PREACHER CONFESSES.*
Bradley had argued with himself that at the proper time it would be
simple enough to tell the girl that he loved her, and no doubt he was
right, but the time did not come. He sat beside her on the sofa, when
the Judge and Florence had quitted the room, and he looked into her
eyes, and the proper words arose like a graceful flight of birds, rich
in bright feathers, but they scattered and flew away. He could have
delivered an oration upon beauty and love, and he did; but he feared to
surprise her by telling her that he loved her. He did not dream that
she had discovered it coming before he felt it. It was not possible for
so innocent a creature to know so much. He was a large man, and large
men may have sentiment, but sometimes they lack sentimental nerve.
"You don't believe now that I talked what you termed sweet to that poor
girl, do you?"
"Oh, I don't know. But I don't see why she should look at you that way
even if you did--did lead her. It must have looked nice, you going
along leading her. What do you suppose people thought?"
"No one--one saw me lead her," Bradley stammered.
"Oh, then it was in the dark. Led her in the dark."
"She didn't mean that I really took her by the hand and led her. I led
her spiritually."
"Is that all? Where did you find her--spiritually?"
"Going--shall I say?"
"Why, of course."
"Going to the devil."
"Oh, and did she say so, or could you see for yourself?"
"I could see. Agnes--Miss Agnes, if I were not afraid of lowering
myself in your esteem, I would tell you something."
"Don't tell me anything dreadful," she cried, stopping her ears. "I
know it must be something awful."
He waited for her to unstop her ears, which she did very soon, and then
he spoke, but on another subject. She replied listlessly, leaning her
head on the back of the sofa. He told her about his church and she
yawned. He had been delighted to see her in the congregation, and she
yawned again. "I thought you were going to tell me about that woman,"
she said.
"But you stopped your ears."
"And don't you know that when a woman stops her ears it's the time when
she wants to hear?"
"I didn't know that."
"You didn't? Then you needn't tell me anything."
"Yes, I believe I ought to tell you--only you."
"Why only me?" she asked, her eyes half closed.
"I don't know, but--"
"Then, why did you say only me?"
"Because I--I think more of you than of anyone else."
"Oh, if you think it's your duty you'd better tell me."
He told her, and she sat up straight, looking at him; she got up and
walked slowly to the opposite side of the room, he gazing at her. He
reproached himself for telling her. She was young, lived apart from the
great crowd, and could not understand. He could not see her face, for
she stood with her back toward him, but displeasure has many
countenances, and he could see that his story had offended her. Her
head was slightly bowed, and she was no doubt weeping; he heard her sob.
Then she had loved him, and her love was dying. But he did not dare to
go to her, to the death of the love he had murdered. Suddenly she
turned about. Her face was radiant, and she was laughing. He stared at
her in amazement.
"It is exactly what you ought to have done," she said.
"And I am not lowered in your estimation?"
"For being a truer man than any man I have ever known? Oh, no."
Yes, she had turned round, laughing, but there were tear stains on her
checks. He did not know that she had passed through a struggle of doubt
to reach laughter. Surely she was a strange creature, worthy of being
loved and capable of loving; but he did not tell her that he loved her.
The words were warm in his heart, but felt cool upon his lips, and he
did not utter them. He talked in a round-about way, in an emotional
skirmish, he afterward said to himself, and then took his leave, as the
Judge and Florence had returned. Just outside he met Bodney coming in.
"Oh, by the way, the very man I want to see, Mr. Bodney. I want a talk
with you."
Bodney thought that the preacher was going to thank him again for the
money sent to the church, to tell him how much good it had done. "I
will walk along with you," he said.
"This is a peculiar world," remarked the preacher, as they strode along,
side by side.
"You might almost say a damnable world," Bodney replied.
"No, not quite so bad as that." They walked on in silence, Bodney
wondering what the preacher wanted to talk about, the preacher wondering
how he could best get at what he intended to say. "You are well
acquainted with Mr. Goyle," said Bradley.
"Why do you speak of him? Why didn't you say I am well acquainted with
the devil?"
"I suppose I might as well. Do you believe him desperate?"
"In his milder moods, yes; at other times he goes beyond that--he is
inhuman."
"Ah. Do you believe that he would snatch a man's watch?"
"He would snatch a woman's child. He is a beast. But you have
something to tell me. What is it?"
"I will, but as I do not wish to bring someone else into the glare of
scandal, you must keep it to yourself. The other night, as I was going
home, a man standing under a lamppost asked me the time. I took out my
watch and he snatched it and fled down an alley. I didn't notice his
face, or at least I could not see it very well, and I did not recognize
him, but I have recovered the watch and have been told that it was Goyle
who snatched it. And you do not suppose that there is any question as to
his being bold enough to do such a thing."
"Mr. Bradley, that man would do anything; he is a footpad or a sorcerer,
just as the humor takes him. Now, I will tell you something. He made
himself my master, so completely that at times I could not resist him.
But the other day he made me an infamous proposition and I struck him in
the mouth and knocked him senseless upon the floor. Blood ran out of
his mouth, and it was black--black, I will swear. I left him lying
there, and when I returned he was gone, but he had written a note to me,
a note in which there was not a word of reproach or resentment. He said
he was going away and would see me upon his return. That note
frightened me, and I have been scared ever since, dreading to meet him,
for I feel that he has some sort of reserve power to throw over me. I
would go away, but the thought that he knows all my movements is
constantly haunting me. You may smile at this and say that I ought to
be stronger, that it is superstition, and that we are not living in a
superstitious age, but I tell you that in his presence I feel a weakness
come over me to such a degree that when I am with him I have only one
strength--a passion for gambling. I have let him ruin me, soul and
body; I--"
"I will pray for you," said Bradley.
"You might as well pray for rain, and nothing could be more foolish than
that."
"What, you doubt the spirit of God?"
"I believe in the spirit of the devil. But this is jugglery. If he had
left me a note full of resentment, or had even left no word at all, I
should have felt that I had conquered him; but, as it is, I know that I
am his slave."
"My dear young man," said the preacher, "you ascribe to him supernatural
powers; you have permitted him to take you back into the middle ages.
Such a thing is absurd, in this great, progressive city. See," he
added, pointing at an electric car rushing by. "There goes the
nineteenth century, and yonder," he broke off, waving his hand at a cart
shoved by an Italian, "is the sixteenth century. You have let the
Italian put you into his wretched cart. Get out--get on the electric
car."
"Your illustration is all right, Mr. Bradley; but he has me in his cart
bound hand and foot. But we have both said enough, and what we have
said is not to be repeated to others. I'll turn back here."
After knocking Goyle down, Bodney had fully determined to make a
confession to Howard and the Judge, but upon finding the note his will
resolved itself into fear and indecision. He felt, however, that the
gambling germ was dead--"germ," he muttered to himself. "Giant!" he
cried aloud. It must be, though, that he would gradually gain strength,
and the time for the confession was surely not far off. But he would
bring disgrace upon himself and be driven out of the house. He could
not bear the thought of seeing hatred in the eye of the Judge. The old
man was unforgiving; had not forgiven his son, and would surely send
Bodney to the penitentiary. "I can't tell him yet," he mused. "I must
wait for strength. That scoundrel is thinking of me at this moment, and
I know it." In the night he awoke with a feeling that Goyle was in the
room, and he sprang out of bed and lighted the gas. Thus it was for
three nights, and on the third morning came a letter from Goyle, not a
letter, but an envelope directed by his hand, and in it was a newspaper
cutting, set in the large type of the village press. "Last night, at
Col. Radley's, the guests were entertained in a most novel, not to say
startling, manner, by Prof. Goyle, of Chicago, who gave several feats of
mind-reading. Miss Sarah Mayhew, daughter of our leading merchant,
stuck a pin in the door-facing as high as she could reach, while the
Professor was out of the room, and then hid the pin under the carpet.
The Professor was brought in blindfolded, amid the silence which the
Colonel had enjoined. He took Miss Mayhew by the hand, fell into deep
thought for a few moments and then went straightway and took the pin
from under the carpet, and then, marvelous to relate, ran across the
room and leaping off the floor stuck the pin in the exact hole which it
had occupied at the hands of the handsome Miss Mayhew. George Halbin,
one of our leading lawyers, said that the feat would have seemed
impossible to even a man with both eyes open. The Professor will appear
at the opera house tomorrow night, and our citizens who appreciate a
good thing when they see it should turn out."
"What have you got there?" William asked, standing in Bodney's door.
"Just a clipping from a newspaper telling of Goyle's wonderful
mind-reading."
"Let me see it."
William read the paragraph and handed it back. "I don't believe a word
of it," he said. "Those fellows will write anything if they are paid
for it. It's all a lie."
"It's all true," said Bodney.
"What, have you turned spiritualist? Is the whole family going to
pieces? Howard has ruined himself with French books and John is so
snappish that no one can speak to him. Is that the sort of home I've
found? Give me that cigar sticking out of your packet. You don't need
it. Thank you. A man who believes the stuff you do don't know whether
he's smoking or not. Is that John, roaring at Howard? I want to tell
you that there's something wrong here. What do you keep holding that
thing for? Why, you shake like a sifter at a sawmill. You are all going
crazy."
*CHAPTER XXI.*
*UP THE STAIRS AND DOWN AGAIN.*
When Bodney went into the hall he found the Judge walking up and down,
waiting for breakfast. His brow was troubled and dark, for Howard had
just announced his determination to leave on the following day. He had
acknowledged to himself that there was nothing left to hope for, and yet
he had continued to hope that it all might be, as Florence believed, a
vision, a nightmare, to be relieved by a sudden start. He knew that it
was unreasonable thus to hope, but hope was born before reason, and will
exist after reason has died of old age. As Bodney approached the old
man stood with his hand pressed against his forehead. Bodney's heart
smote him, but his fear was stronger than his remorse. The piece of
paper, still in his hand, seemed to burn his palm, as poker money had
burned in his pocket; and he felt that he was but a pin hidden under a
carpet and that Goyle could find him and thrust him back into obedience.
The Judge noticed the grip with which he held the slip of paper. "What
have you there, George?" he asked.
"A--a--thing cut out of a newspaper." He opened his hand and the Judge
looked at the slip of paper.
"But why did you grip it that way?" He took the cutting, smoothed it
out, and, putting on his glasses, read it. "Ah," he said, handing it
back, "that fellow. I have seen him in my sleep--last night. Tell him
not to come here again."
"It has been some time since he was here."
"Don't apologize for him. Tell him that he must not enter this house
again."
William came out and saw the Judge hand the cutting to Bodney. "Is it
possible, John, that you believe in that nonsense, too?"
"I don't believe in anything," said the Judge.
"That's putting it rather strong," replied William. "That is to say,
that when I tell you I elected Governors and Senators, you don't believe
it." Bodney passed on, leaving the brothers walking up and down the
hall, shoulder to shoulder.
"Did I say that I didn't believe you? What difference does it make
anyway?"
"What difference does any man's record make? If a man isn't proud of his
record, what should he be proud of? You are proud of your
decisions--they go to make up your record. I elected Governors, and--"
"Why didn't you elect yourself?"
"That's a nice way to come back at a man--your own brother. Haven't you
heard me say that there is something higher than a desire for office?
Hah, haven't you heard me say that?"
"Yes, there is something higher--the roof of the board of trade."
"John, that is an unfair thrust at my speculations. But, sir, at one
time I could have closed out for millions. Do you understand, for
millions."
"Why didn't you?"
"Now, just listen to that. Reproaches me for not being a money grabber,
for not joining the robbers to crush the weaklings. I have suffered a
good deal at your hands lately, but I didn't expect that stab. It
wounds me here." He halted, and placed his hand on his breast. But he
went in to breakfast and ate with the appetite of a man who, if wounded,
must have marvelously recovered; he joked with Agnes about the preacher;
he told her that it would be her duty to take care of his numerous
slippers, presented by women. "And when you have a pound party at your
house I will contribute a--"
"Senator," said Howard.
"Oh, so you have broken out, have you? I thought you were too deep in
the study of French literature to pay any attention to such trifles.
And you have got on a reddish necktie. You'll be an anarchist the first
thing you know."
"He is going away, William," said Mrs. Elbridge, and the Judge did not
look up. The sadness of her voice stirred William to repentance. "Going
away? I don't see how we can get along without him. He and I joke, but
we understand each other, don't we, Howard?"
"Perfectly, Uncle William; and when I open my ranch out West, you may
look on it as your home."
"Thank you, my boy; but I don't care to go out there again. I was once
a power there, but the country is now overrun with a lesser breed, and I
am afraid that I might not get along with them. I want men, such as
there used to be. Man will soon be a thing of the past. The scorcher
is running over him--and I want to say right here, that if one of those
fellows ever runs over me, he'll get a bullet just about the size of
a--a--about the size of that." He held up his thumb and measured off
the missile intended for the scorcher. "You hear what I say. Why,
confound 'em, if they see a man, a real man, they bow their necks and
make at him, but if one of them ever runs into me, the coroner will have
a job."
Howard and Bodney went down town together and opened the office, as
usual, for clients who did not come, and who, if they had come, would
have shaken their heads and gone away.
"Howard," said Bodney, "I told you that I was financially ruined."
"Yes, I remember, but afterward you said that everything was all right,
that your fit had passed. Has it come again?"
"It didn't go away. A sort of drunkenness made it appear so. The fact
is, I am in need of ten dollars, to pay a man I owe. He keeps harassing
me."
"I need every cent I've got, old man, but here's ten."
Bodney took the bank note and went out. The poker microbe was not so
easily to be exterminated. It had suggested to Bodney that the only way
to replace the money taken from the Judge's safe was to play poker.
And, why not play? He might win--he had won once, and what the cards
had done they would do again. He remembered the courtesies that had
been shown him at the club, the congratulation of the man at the desk
when he won and the sympathy when he lost. "Couldn't make 'em stick,
eh? When a man gets the hands beaten you do, he's got to lose his
money. There's nothing to it. But you'll get 'em yet--you play as good
game as any of them." A man of sense could see that it was a losing
game from the start, no matter how honestly conducted. And Bodney,
going to the club before business put on its cheerful countenance, had
seen them counting the swallowings of the ever hungry box, the rake-off,
the unsatisfied maw. A fairly active game would average for the house
at least eight dollars an hour, so that in the end every man must be a
loser. He knew all this as the others knew it, but the microbe squirmed
and made him itch.
He walked toward the Wexton Club, not in a rush, for he was still
fighting. Speculation urged him to play one more time, and to realize
during the game that it was the last. The hunger for play was surely
dying; then, why kill it? why not let it die of its own accord? Then
came the memory of nights of distress, the nervous sweat of anxiety in
the street, scanning faces, looking for money. He turned aside, went
into a hotel and sat down. Two men were talking of a defaulter. "Yes,
sir," said one of them, "everybody had confidence in him--the firm
trusted him implicitly; but he embezzled and must go up for it." He
mentioned the embezzler's name, and Bodney recognized it as that of a
gentlemanly young fellow well known at the Wexton. He had come under an
assumed name, but had thrown off this weak disguise, to indorse a check.
So the players, who gossip among themselves, knew his real name, but
addressed him as Jones. Bodney continued to listen. "I understand,"
said one of the men, "that the place where he went is a regular robbers'
den." Bodney knew better than this; he knew that in the fairness, the
courtesy, the good nature of the place lay its greatest danger. Men
swore, it was true; cursed their luck and called upon a neighbor to
testify to the fact that he had never seen such hands beaten; but for
the most part, the atmosphere was genial, the talk bright and with a
crispness rarely found in society. He resented this misrepresentation,
and was even on the point of speaking when the men walked off. Soon
afterward he went out, though not in the direction of the club; he
circled round and round, like a deer, charmed by a snake; but after a
time he saw the stairway, dusty and grim, rise before him. In the hall
above, just as he was about to ring the bell, he thought of his short
resources, only one ten dollar note, and he took out the crumpled paper
and held it in his hand for a moment and looked at it, not to find the
ten dollars, but the newspaper cutting. He started as if stung, stepped
back and stood with his hand resting on the balustrade. The door opened
and a man came out. Bodney spoke to him, and he halted. It was the
offensive fellow with the white scar.
"How did you come out?"
The man opened both hands and raised them. He was not drunk now. He was
sober and desperate. "They have ruined me," he said; "ruined me, and I
don't know what in the name of God to do. I'll never play again as long
as I live--I'd swear it on all the bibles in the world. Are you going
to play?"
"I was thinking about it."
"I could have quit big winner. Say, have you got enough to stake me?"
His eyes brightened, but the light went out when Bodney shook his head.
"I've got just ten dollars."
"Then you won't last as long as a feather in hell." He went down the
stairs, and Bodney continued to stand there, fighting against himself,
with the newspaper cutting still in his hand. Suddenly, with his teeth
set and both hands clenched, he ran down the stairs. At the door
opening out upon the street he met the master of the game. "Won't you
come back and eat with us?"
"No, I am in a hurry."
The master of the game was astonished. The idea of a poker player being
in a hurry to get away from the game was almost new to him--and it was
new to Bodney. But he hastened on, not daring to look back lest he
might find some new temptation beckoning him to return. Passing beyond
the circle wherein the lodestone seemed to draw the hardest, he felt,
upon looking back, that he had escaped and was beyond pursuit. It was
now eleven o'clock, and the victory must have been won at about ten
minutes to eleven. He had cause to remember this afterward, on the
following day, when he believed that the cause of this sudden strength
had been revealed to him.
Howard was in the office when Bodney returned. "Well, did you pay your
persistent creditor?"
"There was none. Here is your money; I don't need it now."
"But you will, so you'd better keep it."
"That's a fact, and I don't know how soon."
"But you say there was none."
"None. I'll explain sometime, but I can't now."
Howard did not pursue the subject further, for his mind was on his own
affairs. He had settled upon taking his departure the next morning, and
now he looked about the old room with a feeling of sadness. He had
consulted another physician who knew his father well, and had been
informed that the old man might improve rapidly in the absence of his
son. This made the young man wince, but he had told the doctor that his
father seemed to have an especial antipathy to him. "It is one of the
freaks peculiar to diseased minds to turn upon one who has been
nearest," said the physician. Howard had repeated this to his mother,
and frequently she remarked it as a discovery of her own.
That evening when the young men went home there was a great hub-hub in
the hall. William had just come in, covered with dust and was blowing
like a hippopotamus. "If I live, I'll kill him; mind what I tell you."
"What's the trouble?" Howard asked. William had been knocked down by a
scorcher.
*CHAPTER XXII.*
*TOLD HIM GOOD-BYE.*
At the breakfast table the next morning the Judge paid no attention to
Howard, though he knew that his departure was to take place that day. He
had striven to be genial when Mrs. Elbridge was present, and for a time
had succeeded, but all effort was thrown off now.
Howard went to his room to make ready, and his mother went with him.
The Judge was walking up and down in his office as they passed his door.
Florence entered, and the Judge bowed to her.
"Are you going to tell Howard good-bye?" she asked.
"That's easy enough," he answered.
"He will come in here to see you before he goes."
"How do you know?"
"I know because it is not possible for him to prove so unnatural as--"