She stood looking at him. "Don't you think you ought to tell him why
you have hardened your heart against him?"
"I shall tell him nothing."
"And is that the part of a true man? Is it not almost inhuman to let
him suffer in ignorance?"
The Judge raised his hand and looked toward the door. "I tell you, it
is to protect her. Can't you see?"
"It is well enough to protect her, but you ought to give him an
opportunity to defend himself."
"There is no defense. Mind, your oath."
"Oh, I am sick of that," she said. "Every time I say a word in his
behalf you remind me of a foolish vow. Judge, I am weary of this
senseless and insane drama, seeing the others stumble about in the dark
while you and I stand in the light. No, you do not stand in the light,
I alone am in the light of truth; and if I did not think that the trip
out West would be good for him. I would not let him go; I would stop
him short with what you have told me and made me swear by the memory of
my mother not to repeat. No wonder you put your hand to your head. It
must ache. But, there, I won't reproach you."
He had sat down. She went to him and put her hand on his shoulder. He
looked up, and then looked down again. "I believe something is going to
clear it all up one of these days," she said. He got up and resumed his
walk. Howard's voice came down the hall: "Has the trunk gone yet?"
"I think he is coming," she said.
"Stay with me, Florence."
"No, you must face him, the injured, alone."
"I have not injured him; he has injured me."
She went out and the Judge stood there waiting for Howard. He came in,
more serious now that everything had been made ready. "I am about to
start for the West, sir," he said. "I can't stand it here any longer.
You frown at me, and when I beg you to tell me--"
"How long do you expect to be gone?" the Judge interrupted.
"Till the day when I am to marry almost in secret, or when you send for
me."
The Judge was walking up and down. He turned and replied. "I shall not
send for you."
"Do you still deny us the right to be married in a church?"
"You shall never marry her at all with my sanction, and if you marry her
without it, you marry out West or in there," he added, waving toward the
drawing room. "There must be no guests."
"I should like to marry in my father's house, but on the prairie or in
the woods will do as well; it makes no difference." He looked hard at
his father, and, after a time, added: "I didn't think that a man could
change so much--be so unnatural."
"None of that, sir!" the Judge exclaimed, turning upon him. "It is not
for you to call me unnatural."
"Father, if I have committed a crime in your eye, why don't you tell me
what it is?"
"In my eye! You must have studied long to frame that speech."
"But why don't you tell me?"
"Don't mock me, sir."
Howard looked at him, as if trying to study out something in his
countenance, in his eye. "May I ask you something?"
"Why should you desire my permission since you would pay no attention to
my refusal? What is it that you wish to ask?"
"May I ask if there has ever been any insanity in our family?"
The Judge started. "In our family--in my family there has been
something worse than insanity."
Howard slowly nodded his head as if admitting a sad fact. "Yes, there
has been the death of affection--in your family."
"Ah," cried the Judge, "the shrouding of a hope."
"The murder of a jovial spirit," said Howard.
"Don't shoot your poisonous arrows at me. Go on, away. Good-bye." He
waved his hand. Howard turned toward the door, but halted, faced about
and looked at the Judge with troubled tenderness. "Father, I don't know
exactly where I am going, but out in the wilds somewhere to find a place
for me and mine. I did not believe--couldn't have foreseen such a
moment as this. It seems to me that my father is gone." He paused, and
the Judge stood with his face turned away. "Shall I write to you?"
"No," said the Judge, without looking round.
Mrs. Elbridge came in and found them standing apart, the Judge still
with his back toward Howard. "Howard," she said, "the cab is waiting.
Judge, Howard is going away from us."
The old man turned slightly, looked at her, nodded his head, said "yes,"
and walked to the opposite side of the room. Mrs. Elbridge touched her
forehead. "You must bear with him," she whispered. "You can see where
the trouble lies."
"Yes, and it is a sorrowful thought. I can hardly believe it. And to
think that he should select me as the object of his contempt."
"He will get over it soon and send for you," she said in a low voice.
"A disordered mind turns against the loved one--nearly always." Then,
advancing toward the old man, she said: "Judge, tell him good-bye."
"I have," replied the old man, standing with his face turned from her.
She went to him and, touching his arm, said: "But not in your old
way--not as you would have told him good-bye before--before you were
ill."
"I am not ill," he said, without turning his eyes toward her. "I never
was better in my life."
"But, tell him good-bye, please."
"I tell you I have!" he exclaimed, stamping upon the floor; and turning
with his hand uplifted, he cried: "Can't you see--no, you cannot," he
broke off, his hand shaking, and slowly falling to his side. "No, you
cannot see, must not see. I beg your pardon for speaking so
impatiently, but I am worried, Rachel; worried, and--"
"Yes, I know," she said, taking the arm which he had raised from under
her gentle touch. "But, you must tell him good-bye."
The Judge struggled against her, though not with violence; the struggle,
indeed, was more against himself. She led him toward Howard, who stood
looking on, sorrowfully.
"Put your arm about him," she said to the Judge. "For me, please."
"For you," he said, and suffered her to put his arm on Howard's
shoulder. She raised his other arm, and now he stood with both arms
about the boy's neck.
"Good-bye, father," said Howard.
For a moment the old man's countenance was aglow with the light of love
and sympathy; convulsively he pressed Howard to his bosom--but a horror
seemed to seize him, the light of sympathy went out as if blown by a
cold wind, and, stepping back, he said:
"There. Go. Not another word. Why do you continue to stand there
gazing at me? Rachel, can't you take him away? I have told him
good-bye to please you--now, why don't you oblige me by taking him
away?"
"But, dear, have you no word for him?"
"Word, yes. Good-bye."
"No word of advice?"
"Advice! Don't mock me. Go away, please. Can't you see--no, you
cannot, and why should I expect it? Now go."
"We are going," she said.
"Yes, but--I beg your pardon--but why don't you?"
She took Howard's arm and walked out, looking back as if she hoped that
the Judge might repent and follow, but he did not; he resumed his walk
up and down the room. Suddenly he turned. "Now, what are you doing,
William?" The brother had entered and was turning over papers on the
desk.
"I am looking for a slip of paper I dropped out of my pocket-book."
"You didn't leave anything here."
"That may be," said William, "but I don't know whether I did or not till
I find out. A man never knows--"
"Some men never know," the Judge broke in, going over to the desk and
taking a paper out of William's hand. "Go away, please." William
stepped back, shocking himself from the storage battery of his dignity.
"Oh, I can go, if that's what you want."
"That's what I want."
"It is? All right. John, I'll be hanged if I know what's the matter
with you." The Judge was paying no attention. He was listening to a
cab driving off from the door. "I say, sir, I'll be hanged if I know
what's the matter with you."
"I heard what you said."
"I don't know whether you did or not. There's no living in the house
with you. And last night, after I had been knocked down in the
street--and I'm going to kill him if detectives can find him--last night
when I merely intimated that something had taken place on the fourteenth
of September, you--"
"William, are you going to begin all that over again?"
"I don't know what you mean by again. John, you talk in riddles. I
can't for the life of me get at your meaning. Yes, sir, and last night
you flew off like a jug handle when I told you that Carl Miller--"
"Oh, damn Carl Miller."
"That's all right. I don't care how much you damn him. He deserves
it--broke a pair of boots for me and made 'em so kidney footed that I
couldn't walk in 'em. But I am positive about that other date, John.
It was the tenth."
The Judge looked at him, drew a long breath, and said: "William, you are
an old fool."
"An old fool, John--old? Did you say old?"
"That is what I said. Old."
William sighed. "Then, that settles it. It isn't so bad to be simply a
fool--for we may grow out of that as time goes on--but to be an old
fool--John, I'll leave your house. I can't stand your abuse any longer.
I am without means, broke, you might say, and I don't know which way to
turn, except to turn my back on your ill-treatment of me. I may starve
to death or be killed in the street or on some freight car, stealing a
ride from misery to misery, but I am going."
"William, sit down and behave yourself."
"Never again will I sit down in your house. I have joked with you, I
know, and have said a great many things that I didn't mean, but I am in
deadly earnest this time. I am going away."
The Judge put his hand on William's shoulder. "Look at me," he said.
"Don't leave me. I need you. I am mean, and I know it, but I beg of
you not to leave me."
"Mean!" William cried. "Who the deuce said you were mean? Show the
villain to me. Show him to me, I tell you."
"There, now, sit down; it is all right."
"No, sir, it is not all right, and it never will be till I find the
scoundrel that called you mean. Was it Bradley? Tell me, and I'll
choke him till his eyes pop out. Was it Bradley?"
The Judge smiled. "Bradley," said he, "is one of my props. He is the
son of my old friend, and I think the world of him."
"Well, let him congratulate himself on his escape, for before the Lord I
would choke him. It is all right, yes, sir--but, really, John, if I
tell you earnestly it was on the tenth won't you believe--"
"Yes, yes; let it be the tenth."
"Let it be! Why, confound it, I tell you it was the tenth."
"All right. When you go out I wish you would tell Florence to come
here."
William grunted. "Oh, I can go out. By the way, John, Howard asked me
a pertinent question this morning. And it staggered me a little. He
wanted to know whether there had ever been any insanity in our family."
The Judge showed signs of coming agitation, but he fought with himself
as it was his custom to fight. "What did you tell him?"
"I lied, I told him no. John, do you remember the night when they came
from the mad-house and told us children that father was dead?"
"Don't, William; don't. Please tell Florence to come here."
William went out and the Judge resumed his walk up and down the pathway
of trouble. Yes, he did remember the night when they came from the
mad-house, two men in a doctor's gig; he remembered the lamps on each
side of the vehicle, eyes of a great bug, they seemed. But his father's
malady had not come of inheritance, but of fever. But other men had
fever and did not go mad. Could it be that he himself had been touched
with the disease--touched in the eye with a vision? No, for there was
Bodney. He had seen it. "My mind is sound, even in distress," he
mused. "But wouldn't it have been better if I had talked to him kindly
about his crime? I ought to have let him know that I saw him. No, his
mother would have drawn it out of him--love sucking poison from a
wound."
Florence entered the room, advanced a few paces, halted, and stood,
looking at him. "Well, you sent for me and I am here."
"Yes, sit down, please."
"No, I thank you."
The Judge looked at her sorrowfully. "Did Howard tell you where he
intends to go?"
Florence looked at him with a smile, but in the smile he saw bitterness.
"Does it concern you?" she asked.
"I am not a brute, Florence."
"No," she said. "A brute is not unnatural."
"Don't, please. I am trying not to be unnatural. There can be a broken
heart shielding a heart to keep it from breaking."
"You were a judge, a man of justice. And was it just to let him suffer
in the dark? Was it right to lock your own lips and put a seal on mine.
Judge, I ought to have told him in your presence."
"Don't say that."
"But I do say it. You presume upon what you are pleased to think is my
strength of character. I am beginning to believe that I was weak instead
of strong. Yes, I ought to have told him in your presence. I ought to
have said: 'Your father, who has been a judge, has passed sentence upon
you without giving you a hearing. He says you are a thief.'"
"Hush," said the Judge, in a loud whisper, motioning toward the door.
"Don't talk that way to me. Ah, I have killed all the love you ever had
for me."
"You have choked it and it is gasping."
"I am grieved--but it cannot be undone--the fingers are stiffened about
your gasping love." He walked up and down for a time, and then turned
again to her. "When you get a letter from him will you let me read it?"
"No. His heart will write to mine, and your eye would blur the words."
"Don't say that. I am not without a heart. I had a heart--it is
broken." He walked off again, but turned quickly. "Florence, I
sometimes wonder if my eye could have deceived me--could have lied to
me."
She moved toward him, her hands uplifted, hope in her face. "A man's
mind lies to him, and why not his eyes?" the Judge continued. Florence
caught him by the arm and looked appealingly at him. "But your brother,
Florence--your brother. He saw him, too."
"What!" she cried, stepping back. "Brother saw him! You didn't tell me
that."
"I promised him I would not tell you."
"Ah, you break your promises and expect me to keep mine. I will go this
moment and tell his mother."
He caught her arm and poured out a distressful imploration, a prayer.
"I would rather you'd stab me," he said, concluding. "I would rather
you'd kill us both. But I didn't swear, Florence. You have taken an
oath."
"Judge, that is cowardly."
"Yes, it is. I am a coward--but only for her. A bitter word,
Florence."
"Yes, forgive me. I didn't mean that. You are not a coward, but you
are blind." He held forth his hands. She stepped back, shaking her
head.
"All gone," said he, "all respect, all confidence. And you were my
daughter."
"I was."
"In love and in duty," he said.
"In both," she replied. "In both, yes, and now love is gasping and duty
has become a hard master." Suddenly she sprang toward him. "Brother
saw him! I am just beginning to realize what you said. I don't believe
it. His eyes lied, too."
"Oh, beautiful faith, it would move a mountain."
"It would pluck a mote from an eye. May I go now?"
"I am not on the bench to discharge or restrain you. But, just a
moment. You feel that I am a tyrant. That could not have been possible
with your former self. What is so cold as frozen gentleness? And now it
is only through the frost-crusted windows that I can catch a glimpse of
your other spirit."
"In the hall, yesterday," she said, "I thought that I heard a lurking
echo of your old laughter."
He made a gesture of distress. "Don't remind me of it," he said.
"May I go?"
"Yes. But let me ask you one more favor. Don't tell your brother that
I mentioned him."
"Another chain," she said.
*CHAPTER XXIII.*
*THE LIGHT BREAKS.*
The Judge turned and saw Bradley in the door. His appearance at any
moment was not in the nature of a surprise. Agnes said that she
expected him at most unexpected times. He no doubt regarded himself as
a brave man, and perhaps he was; it required courage to be so timidly
persistent.
"I hope I don't intrude," said the preacher.
"Oh, not at all. Come in."
"Miss Agnes is out for a walk, I understand," said Bradley, sitting
down.
The Judge stood looking at him absent-mindedly. "Ah, yes, I suppose so.
But I don't know why I suppose so. The truth is, I don't know anything
about it. I beg your pardon, Bradley. I am--am greatly disturbed. The
fact is, I hardly know what I am about. I am a mystery unto myself. I
was just thinking of it as you came in. It does not seem possible for a
man, with a mountain of sorrow upon his heart, to turn squarely about
and speculate upon trivial things--to jest, if I may say so, and I must
for it is a fact. I am glad you came."
"I am always delighted to come, Judge. Here I find the shade of a palm
tree in a great desert of trade. And I came in the hope of finding you
better."
"Better!" The Judge looked at him almost sternly. "Better, why I am
not sick. What put that into your head, Bradley?"
"Why, I understood from what you have said that your health was not of
the best."
"But it is of the best, I assure you. But I brood, yes, I brood, and
that is worse than ill-health--it is the ill health of the mind, the
soul."
"I am afraid you work too hard."
"Um, work, I hardly know what that is. I am trying to rest, but it is
like a man seeking sleep on a bed of thorns. Work is all right, for we
can put it aside, but worry rides us till we are down, and then sits on
our breast, waiting for us to get up."
William came in, shying a little upon seeing Bradley, but shook hands
with him. "I am glad to see you looking so well, Mr. William," said the
preacher.
"Oh, I'm a pine knot. Ain't I, John?"