The Judge came in. He put his arms about Mrs. Elbridge. "Rachel," he
said, "you shall never see my face gloomy again. I will go laughing
down into green old age, into the very moss of time." He motioned
toward the office. "In there is a beautiful picture of sweet distress."
Mrs. Elbridge looked upon him with a trembling lip. "But, my dear, it
is not more beautiful than the fact that you sent for your son and that
you yourself have come back to us all."
The Judge smiled. Florence could see that he was growing stronger, that
his mind was clearing. "He returns like a lost child suddenly finding
the path home," she said.
"Faith has its wisdom and its reward," replied the Judge, looking at
her. "In the days of the New Testament, you would have been one of the
followers. You would have wiped His feet with your hair." And, looking
at his watch, he added: "I wonder why William doesn't come back."
"It is not time," Mrs. Elbridge replied, glancing at the clock.
"The minutes are hours, but clearing and strengthening hours," said the
Judge. He turned about and began to walk up and down the room, with all
the simpleness of his nature in his face. He did not look like a man
who had sat in judgment upon the actions of men. His heart had cried
for pardon, and a belief that it had come lighted his countenance. A
man who has been shrewd in the affairs of the world, sharp in practice,
suspicious, sometimes becomes simple and trustful in the love of a
grandchild. And at this time, the Judge might have reminded one of such
a man.
Mrs. Elbridge stood in the door looking down the hall. The Judge halted
to speak to Florence. "Forgiveness," said he, "is the essence of all
that is noble in life. And do you forgive me?"
"Yes," she said. "And I hope that I shall be forgiven all the
falsehoods I have been forced to tell."
"They were for her, Florence, and there is a virtue in an untruth that
shields a heart." He moved closer to her and added: "I wonder at your
strength and marvel at my weakness."
"You were groping in the dark. It was not your fault, but your nature."
"And you are my daughter again."
"Yes," said Florence, "in love and in duty."
Mrs. Elbridge went out. The Judge and Florence sat down to wait for
William. He was a sort of way-station which must be reached before they
could arrive at Howard. The Judge told her of the darkness through
which he had passed, throwing new light upon it, as if she had not seen
it, as she stood by, holding a torch. He spoke of Goyle, of his strange
power; he told her of the newspaper cutting that gave account of his
mind-reading, and finally he told her of Bodney's confession. She was
prepared, and showed no agitation. But there was grief on her face.
Then he told her that he could not find it in his heart to condemn him.
"In your own words, Florence, it was not his fault, but his nature. I
will take him back, and not even Howard must know of his part in--in my
darkness."
"Howard ought to know everything," she said. "But not now, my dear; by
degrees, as he shall be able to bear it. He is generous, and I believe
he will forgive."
Mrs. Elbridge returned and stood in the door. "Here comes William," she
said. The Judge arose. William came in puffing. "We were looking for
you," said Mrs. Elbridge.
"Well, now," replied the old fellow, "you don't have to look long for
me, I'll tell you that. I made the driver whip his horses all the way
there and back."
"And are you sure that your message caught the train?" said the Judge.
"Oh, I always fetch 'em whenever I go after 'em."
"Are you sure you sent it all right?" the Judge asked.
"John, I thought you'd get well. But, sir, you exhibit the most
alarming sign of sickness I have ever seen in you. Sure I sent it all
right! What other way do I ever do a thing? Of course I sent it all
right. The train wasn't far out, and there's one back every few
minutes."
"It seems that he has been gone a year instead of two hours," said the
Judge.
Florence smiled at him. "And are we to be married in secret?" she
asked, speaking low.
"My dear, that shall be as you please. I have only one wish--that it
shall be one of the happiest days of my life, and I believe that it will
be."
"What day of the month is this?" William asked.
"The fifth," the Judge answered.
"Are you sure?"
"I am sure it is not the tenth of June, sixty-three," said the Judge,
and was in deep regret at his levity at such a time, when his wife spoke
up, "Judge, please don't get him started."
"Started!" William snorted. "Now--now, that's good. A man races all
the way to the station and back, and they talk about getting him
started." Suddenly he thrust his hands into his pockets and stood
staring at the wall. "Well, if that don't beat anything I ever saw."
"What is the trouble?" the Judge asked.
"Why, I dated that telegram the fourth."
"You did!" Mrs. Elbridge cried. The Judge looked hard at his brother.
"It won't make any difference," said Florence. "He will know that it
was a mistake."
"He will undoubtedly know who sent it," the Judge added.
"I wonder why Mr. Bradley and Agnes stay in that dingy place," said Mrs.
Elbridge, always anxious to change the talk from William's dates.
"The place may be dingy," replied the Judge, "but there are no cobwebs
hanging from the rafters in the abode of love."
"Judge!" she said, giving him a smiling frown.
"To some eyes," remarked Florence, half musingly, "there may be cobwebs
hanging from the rafters in love's abode, but to love they are strands
of gold."
"Let us go out and watch for his coming," said Mrs. Elbridge, taking
Florence by the arm. They went out, leaving William staring at the
Judge.
"By the way, what's this I happened to hear about brother Henry being
dead? I didn't know he was dead till he wasn't."
"You didn't?"
"I mean I heard the news of his death and the contradiction about the
same time. Why did you keep it from me?"
"Oh, I knew there wasn't any truth in the report, and there wasn't
anything to be gained by telling you."
"Anything to be gained. Do you only tell a man a thing when there is
something to be gained by it?"
The Judge looked at the clock and then at his watch. "He ought to be
here pretty soon. I want everybody to keep away from me. I want to see
him first alone--in here."
"But what's all this mystery about? I'll be hanged if you haven't put
my light under a bushel."
"No, William, it is my light that has been under a bushel."
"Everything may be all right, John, but I don't understand it. There
was something I wanted to say. Yes. In case I forget it, tell him the
date was a mistake."
"You won't forget it, William. You never forget a mistaken date."
"There you go again. Can't a man make a request?"
"I believe a man can, William."
"You don't believe anything of the sort, and you know it. But I won't
be left in the dark. I refuse to stumble in ignorance." He started
toward the door.
"What are you going to do?"
"I am going to get the morning paper and settle that date."
"All right," said the Judge, as William went out. "And tell them out
there that I must see him here alone. Don't forget that." He walked up
and down the room and then stood at the door. "Do you see anything of
him yet?" he called to his wife.
"Not yet. It isn't time. But here's a cab. It's going to stop--no,
it's gone on."
"Let me get there," said the Judge, as if the others were responsible
for the fact that the cab had not halted and put Howard down at the
door. A moment after he went out Bradley and Agnes entered the room.
"They are gone to watch for him. Shall we go, too?" the girl asked,
looking at him with a mischievous quiz in her eyes.
"No, let us stop here a moment. Strange, isn't it, his going away and
coming back so soon?"
They sat on a sofa, looking at each other as if new interests were
constantly springing up.
"We have talked all over the house," she said. "I feel as if I have been
on an excursion. Yes, it is strange. Don't you think they have
quarreled?"
"Perhaps--but it will bring them closer together."
"Yes," she said, "but I wouldn't like to quarrel just to be brought
closer together. I wonder why Mr. Bodney went away, too."
"And you ask?"
"Yes, didn't you hear me? I heard him muttering as he went out. And I
understood him to say that he wasn't coming back any more."
"I thought you knew why he went."
"Thought I did? How was I to know?"
"I could not help but think--"
"What did you think?" she broke in.
"That he had asked you to be his wife and--"
"Oh, he never thought of such a thing."
"And if he should?"
"I'd tell him no, of course."
"You may have to say yes sometime, Agnes."