Bodney did not move. "The old laugh that they have spoken so much about
may return; old confidences and an old love will be restored, but there
must be a wanderer that can never come back, a fool whom nature made
weak. But I feel that if you would give me your hand--I am not
deserving of it--but I feel that if I could once more touch that
honorable hand, I could go forth an honest man. I would try."
The Judge slowly raised his head. Tears were in his eyes. He held
forth his hand. Bodney grasped it, and--was gone.
*CHAPTER XXIV.*
*SENT A MESSAGE.*
William went to the office door and found it locked. This was so
singular a happening that the old fellow stalked about the house,
marveling over it and complaining against an innovation that shut a man
out of an apartment that had served so long as a sort of public domain.
It was like the closing of a park or a county road. Everyone laughed at
him and he snorted. In the vocabulary of William's contempt, the snort
was the strongest expression. "It is all right to laugh," said he, "but
I want to tell you that there has got to be a change here." He returned
to the office door and knocked upon it, but his knuckles aroused no heed
within. He could hear the Judge walking up and down. Bodney had been
gone nearly half an hour. But the Judge had not noted the time. To
him, life was but a conflicting, mental eternity, and he was in the
whirling midst of it. For a long time he sat with his head on the
table, one arm stretched out before him, the other hanging limp; then he
staggered about the room, and then sat down with his head in his hands.
To the eye turned inward all was black, till gradually a light appeared,
seeming softly to shine upon a hideous shape, crouching in a dark
corner. He gazed upon it, and it spoke, shrinking further back from the
soft light. "I am your injustice," it said. He got up, raised a
window, and stood looking out upon the sunlight in the street. But he
shivered as if with cold, and his lips moved as if he were talking and
swallowing his words down into deep silence. A gladness began to form
in his heart. His son was innocent, but in that innocence there was a
reproach. He had been unnatural as a father, and might he not many a
time have been unjust as a judge? He acknowledged to himself that he
must have decided in favor of error while on the bench. His retirement
was a sort of unconscious justice. He realized that his mind had not
been sound. He had felt a coming weakness. But now he felt a coming
strength. The trial through which he had passed must have served as a
test. It was to restore or ruin his mental life. But why should there
have been such a test, and why should the innocent have suffered? It
would not do to reason, and he banished the test idea, fighting it off.
Still, he acknowledged that his mind had sickened and that now it was
gaining strength. He remembered his frivolity and loathed it, his jokes
with William at a time when his heart was heavy and swollen. "Unnatural
as a father and inconsistent as a man," he muttered. "But who is to
judge of man's naturalness? One kink in the mind and the entire world
is changed." William knocked again, and now the Judge opened the door.
The old fellow looked at his brother and exclaimed:
"Why, what has happened, John?"
"Nothing, except that I have been really ill. But I am almost
recovered. My mind has passed through a sort of crisis, William. I can
now look back and see that I was not right. My present strength tells
me of my former weakness. I am soon to be entirely well."
"Well, I am glad to hear that. It is particularly gratifying to me.
And I suppose that you are, or, at least, soon will be, willing to
concede that I am sometimes correct with regards to my dates."
"Yes, but we won't mention that. It is of no importance."
"What! No importance? Take care, John, you'll get back where you were,
for when a man says that a date is of no importance, he's in danger."
"William, I want you to do me a favor. I am almost afraid to trust
myself to go out just now. Wait a moment." He went to his desk, found a
telegraph blank, and upon it wrote the following message: "The light has
broken. Come back at once." William read the words and looked at him.
"Go to the station," said the Judge, "and send this to Howard, in care
of the conductor. It is not a secret, mind you, but don't stay to show
it. They would delay you with puzzling over it."
"All right, I'll jump into a cab and go right over. I know the station.
It's only a few blocks from here. He didn't go all the way down town.
I heard him tell his mother. By the way," William added, "I found one
of Howard's French books--"
"Put it back where you found it."
"What, you haven't flopped, have you?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"Why, you said that French literature was the--"
"It is the civilizing force of the modern world. Go on, please. Just a
moment. Tell Florence that I wish to see her."
When Florence came in her face was radiant. William had spread the news
of Howard's recall. "Ah," said the Judge, "you know that I have sent for
him."
"Yes, father," she replied, going up to him with outstretched hands. He
took her in his arms and kissed her. "What has happened?" she asked.
"The atmosphere is cleared, my dear."
"But, what cleared it?"
"The truth. You were right. I saw a vision."