Chapter IV: Part 4

The doctor looked wise, with his hand flat upon the medical journal, and as it had been printed in the drowsy afternoon of a slow day, seemed to inspire caution against a quick opinion.

"I hold, and have held for years," said he, "that a complete revolution in a man's affairs, sudden riches or sudden poverty--the er--the withdrawing of vital forces necessary to a continuous strain, is a shock to the system, and therefore deleterious. It is unquestionably a fact, not only known to the medical fraternity, but to ordinary observation, that incentive in the aged is a sort of continuance of youth, in other words, to make myself perfectly clear, the impetus of youth when unchecked, goes far into old age--when the pursuit has not been changed; and therefore a sudden halting is bad for the system. Is your father's health impaired?"

"I can't say that it is. He appears to be strong, but his temper is not of the best--toward me. Toward the others he is just the same."

"Ah, not unusual in such cases. It so happened that a sudden change must have taken place in him, and as you were doubtless the first one to come in contact with him after the change, his--his displeasure, if I may be permitted the term, fell upon you."

"But I was not the first one."

"Um, a complication. I shall have to study that up a little. Perhaps I'd better see him."

"Oh, no, don't do that. It really amounts to nothing. I consulted you because you were well acquainted with him. And I am now inclined to think that I have made more of it than it really is. How are you getting along?" Howard asked, to change the subject.

"Never better, sir, I am pleased to say. Of course medicine has degenerated, splitting up into all sorts of specialties, but there are a few people who don't want to be humbugged. Well, I am glad you called," he added as Howard turned to go. "Give my regards to your father."

Howard returned to the office, took up a book which held in closer affinity the laws of verse than the laws of the land, and lying down upon a leather lounge, was borne away by the gentle tide of a rhythmic sea.

*CHAPTER XII.*

*WALKED AND REPENTED.*

A man can be more repentant when he walks than when he rides. The world's most meditative highway is that road which we are told is paved with good intentions; and strolling along it, our determination to reform becomes stronger at each step until--until something occurs to change it all. Bodney walked down town. And for the first time in his life he fancied that he found the very bottom of his mind, and thereon lay a resolution, an oath self-made, self-sworn to tell Howard the truth and to take the consequences no matter what they might be. He had intended, upon getting out of bed to make his confession to the old gentleman, and he would have done so, he fully believed, had not the Judge been engaged with a client. But perhaps after all it would better serve the purposes of justice to confess to Howard. He was the one most deeply injured. Yes, he would go at once to Howard and tell him the truth. It would of course involve Goyle, but he ought to be involved; he was a scoundrel. Perhaps they might both be sent to the penitentiary. No matter, the confession must be made. He passed the building wherein the night before he had agonized under the frown of hard luck; he halted and looked into the entry-way, at the stairs worn and splintered by the heavy feet of the unfortunate. Some strange influence had fallen upon him, some strength not gathered by his own vital forces had come to him, and now he knew that no longer could he be a slave held by chains forged in that house of bondage. As he turned away he met a man who had been in the game the night before. His face was bright and he did not look like a slave.

"How did you come out?" Bodney asked.

"I was ninety in when you left, and I pull out sixty winner."

"You did? You were losing when I left."

"Yes, but they can't beat a man all the time. I tell you it would put me in the hole if I didn't win. I owe at three or four places, and I go around today and pay up."

Then, with a feeling like a sudden sickness at the stomach, came the recollection of the druggist and the preacher, obligations not to be discharged that day. Long after the moral nature has been weakened, the poker player may continue to respect his own word, or rather he may not respect it himself but may desire others to do so. Unless his income is large he must operate mainly upon borrowed capital, and breaking his word cripples his resources. And then, after having lost, there is a self-shame in having borrowed, a confession of weakness. He condemns himself for not having had strength enough to quit when he found that there was no chance to get even. "There never is a chance to get even," Bodney mused as he walked on toward the office. "The old fellow who has worn himself out at the cursed game says so and I believe it. I will tell Howard--nothing shall shake my resolution. I will simply cut my throat before I'll sink myself further in this iniquity. By nature I am not dishonest. If I hadn't met that fellow Goyle I might--but I'll not think of him. Now that fellow didn't play any better cards than I did, was nearly a hundred in and pulled out sixty ahead. And he has paid his debts while I must dodge. I wonder how much I have lost within the past two months. On an average of fifty dollars a sitting. That won't do. I had money enough to--but I won't think about it--won't do any good, and besides it is over with now."

He found Howard in the office writing. "A brief?" said Bodney, sitting down.

"In one sense--short meter," Howard replied.

"What, poetry?"

"Rhyme. I come by it naturally, you know. Have you heard from your friend today, the one you sat up with?"

"Yes, he's better."

"Goyle was here--said he'd be back this afternoon."

"Didn't leave any money--didn't say what he wanted, did he?"

"No. I think he wants to talk more than anything else. He is a smart fellow, George, but I am beginning to find fault with him. I don't like his principles."

"Perhaps he has none," Bodney replied.

"What, have you begun to--"

"Oh, no, I merely said that."

"That's the way he talks--makes a statement and then declares he didn't mean it. By the way, I'm going to get out of this office. There's no use staying here. If father wants to keep it, let him; but you and I ought to be in a more modern building. We have played at the law long enough. What do you say?"

"I don't know but you are right. I would like to do something. Has anyone else called?"

"Yes, Bradley was here."

"Bradley! What did he want?"

"He didn't say what he wanted."

"What did he say?"

"He inquired about your friend--the divinity student."

Bodney was silent, and to him it seemed that he was groping about in his own mind, searching for his resolution, but he could not find it. The preacher might have asked about the divinity student, the wretch mused, but of course he wanted ten dollars; and what if it should be known at the house that he had borrowed the money?

"Howard, can you let me have twenty-five dollars?"

"What, haven't you--you any money?"

"None that I can get hold of. I haven't said anything about it, but the fact is, I have invested in suburban lots, and can make a good profit any time I care to sell out, but I don't want to sell just now."

"Ah, business man, eh?" said Howard, crumpling the paper which he had covered with rhymes and throwing it into the waste basket. "Well, I am going to do something of that sort myself. I am glad you told me. Yes, I'll let you have twenty-five. I have just about that amount with me."

Bodney took the money and seized his hat. "If Goyle comes in, tell him I don't know when I'll be back. By the way, do you suppose Bradley went home?"

"Yes, I think so--in fact, he remarked that he was going home to do some work. Why?"

"Nothing, only he seemed interested in the young fellow I sat up with--wanted to go with me to see him, in fact."

With a determination to pay the druggist and to go at once to Bradley's house, Bodney left the office, still wondering, though, what had become of his resolve to make a confession to Howard. But he would fortify himself against trivial annoyances and then, morally stronger, he could confess. As he was crossing the street he thought of the fellow who had won sixty dollars. "No better player than I am," he mused. "He hung on, that's all. Now, when I pay the preacher and the druggist I'll have five dollars left. And with that five dollars I might win out. If I had held to my resolution not to stay in on so many four flushes I might have won out anyway. But the other fellows filled flushes and straights against me. Why couldn't I against them? Simply because it wasn't my day. But this may be my day. My day must come some time. As that fellow said, 'they can't beat a man all the time.' Why not go to the club first? Then, if I win, I can easily meet my obligations."

He went to the club. The game was full, but a "house" player got up and gave him a seat. He bought ten dollars' worth of chips, and the first hand he picked up was three queens. The pot was opened ahead of him and another man came in. Bodney raised; they stood it, and drew one card each. To disguise his hand, Bodney drew one, holding up a six. He caught a six. The opener bet a white chip. The next man raised him three dollars. Bodney raised all he had. The opener laid down; the other man studied. "Is it that bad?" he asked, peeping at the tips of his cards. Bodney said nothing; his blood was tingling, but in his eyes there was a far-away look.

"It's up to you, Griff," said an impatient fellow.

"Yes, so I see; but I'm playing this hand. Raised it and drew one card, then raised a one-card draw. Well, I've got to call you."

"Queen full."

"Beats a flush. Take the hay."

And now Bodney's troubles all were luminous. The wine of the game flowed through his veins and made his heart drunk with delight. He held a pat flush, won a big pot and felt a delicious coolness in his mind, the chamber wherein he had groped through darkness, searching for the lost resolution. But now it was light, and was crowded with charming fancies. He bubbled wit and simmered humor, and the look-out man said, "you bet, he's a good one." His stack was building so high that he could hardly keep from knocking it over--did overturn it with a crash, and a loud voice called to the porter: "Chip on the floor." The man attendant upon the desk came over, put his hand on Bodney's shoulder and said: "Give it to 'em; eat 'em up."

In the game there was a mind-reader, and they called him Professor. In his "studio" he told marvelous things, brought up the past and read the future. Hundreds of persons consulted him, race-track men looking for tips, board of trade men wanting to know the coming trend of the market; and in the twilight came the blushing maiden to ask if her lover were true. In deepest secret you might write a dozen questions, put them in your pocket and button your coat, but the Professor could read them. He was unquestionably a mind-reader--till he sat down to play poker--and then his marvelous powers failed him. The most unintuitive man at the table could beat him. Bodney slaughtered him. "Can you make those things every time?" said the Professor, calling a three-dollar bet.

"Not every time," Bodney replied, spreading a straight, "but I made it this time."

"You can make them every time against me. You are the luckiest man I ever saw. Do you always win?"

"I have lost more within the last two months than any man that comes up the stairs."

"That's right," said the look-out.

One wretched fellow, who had been struggling hard, got up broke. He strove to appear unconcerned, but despair was written on his face. As he walked across the room toward the door the man at the desk called to him. He turned with the light of a vague hope in his eye. In consideration of his hard luck was the house about to stake him? "Have a cigar before you go," said the man at the desk. The light went out of the wretch's eye. He took the cigar and drooped away, to beg for an extension from his landlord, to plead with the grocer, to lie to his wife.

At six o'clock Bodney cashed in one hundred and four dollars. He would eat dinner with them, but he would not play afterward. He had tried that before. His eye-tooth had not only been cut; it had been sharpened to the point of keenest wisdom. While he was at the dinner table Goyle came in and took a seat behind him.

"Understand you sewed up the game," said the master.

"I've got just about enough to pay up what I owe," replied the slave.

"Come off. Let me have twenty."

"I can't do it--swear I can't. I owe all round town. I let you have ten yesterday, you know."

"That's all right. You'll get it again--you know that. Let me have twenty."

"I can't possibly do it."

But he did. Goyle got up and walked out into the hall with him, put his hand on his arm and stood a long time, talking, gazing into his eyes. So Bodney gave him the money and hastened away, his spirits somewhat dampened. But his heart was still light enough to keep him pleased with himself. Luck had surely turned. He would win enough to replace the money taken from the safe, and then he would make a confession. But, that fellow Goyle! What was the secret of his infatuating influence? How did he inspire common words with such power, invest mere slang with such command? But his influence could not last; indeed, it was weakening. And when thus he mused his heart grew lighter. "He couldn't make me aid and abet a robbery now," he said. "I would turn on him and rend him. Let him take the money. The debt is now large enough to make him shun me." With a smile and a merry salutation he stepped into the drug store, and handed the druggist ten dollars, apologizing for not having called during the day, but he had been busy and did not suppose that it would make any particular difference. The druggist assured him that it did not. Good fortune in its many phases may be taken as a matter of course, but the return of borrowed money is nearly always a surprise. The druggist gave him a cigar.

"Thank you," said Bodney. "By the way, have you an envelope and stamp?"

He found an envelope, but no stamp. A young woman who had held his telephone for ten minutes had bought the last one. It was of no consequence; Bodney could get one at the next corner. Tearing a scrap of paper out of his notebook and putting it upon a show case, he scribbled a few lines upon it, folded a ten dollar note in the paper, enclosed it in the envelope and directed it to Bradley.

"I guess that ought to be safe enough," he said.

"I don't know," replied the druggist.

"Well, I'll risk it. Again let me thank you for your kindness. It isn't often that I am forced to borrow, and wouldn't have done so last night but for--"

"Oh, that's all right. Come in again," he added, as Bodney stepped out. At the next corner he stamped his letter and went out to drop it into a box, but before reaching it was accosted by someone, the Professor whom he had slaughtered in the game.

"How did you come out?" Bodney asked.

"You broke me."

"Didn't you sit in after dinner?"

"For about three minutes--first hand finished me. I see you have a letter there with ten dollars in it."

"What! How do you know?"

"And a note written with a pencil."

"Why, that's marvelous. How do you do it?"

The Professor smiled. "It is the line of my business. Why don't you come up to my place some time? I can tell you many things."

It flashed through Bodney's mind that he might tell him many things, and he shrank back from him. "I will, one of these days," he said, and strode off without dropping his letter into the box. He put it into his pocket, intending to stop at the next corner, but forgot it. "Now, what?" he mused. "Believe I'll go home." He got on a car, but stepped off before it started. He went to a hotel, into the reading room, and took up a newspaper, but found nothing interesting in it. His thoughts were upon the game. In his mind was the red glare of a pat diamond flush. He could see it as vividly as if it had been held before his eye. Was it prophetic? He strolled out, not in the direction of the Wexton Club; but he changed his course, and was soon mounting the stairs. There was no seat, but the man at the desk said that there were enough players to start another game. The game was organized with four regulars, Bodney and another fool. The regulars took twenty dollars' worth of chips apiece; the two fools took ten, and within ten minutes Bodney was buying more. A man got up from the other table, and Bodney returned to his old seat, where he knew that luck waited for him. The desk man came over to him. "That other gentleman is number one," said he. Just then a new arrival took the seat which Bodney had vacated and number one called out: "Let him go ahead. I'll stay here." And there, sure enough, was the pat diamond flush. Wasn't it singular that he should have seen it glowing upon the surface of his mind? And wasn't it fortunate that the pot was opened ahead of him? He raised and the opener stayed and drew one card. He bet a white chip and Bodney raised. The opener gave him what was termed the "back wash," re-raised. Then the beauty of the flush began to fade. Could it be that the fellow--the very same offensive fellow, who had beaten him before--could have filled his hand? Or, had he drawn to threes and "sized" Bodney for a revengeful "bluff?"

"Well, I'll have to call you," said Bodney. He put in his money and the offensive fellow showed him a ten full.

"You always beat me."

"I do whenever I can."

"But you make it a point to beat me."

"Make it a point to beat anybody."

"Well, I don't want any abuse and I won't have it."

"Play cards, boys," said the look-out.

"What's the matter with you, worms?" said the offensive fellow, looking at Bodney.

"Play like brothers," spoke up the look-out.

At a little after eleven o'clock Bodney came down as heavy as a drowned man. His heart was full of bitterness. He cursed the world and all that was in it. He called on God to strike him dead. Then he swore that there could be no God; there was nothing but evil and he was the embodiment of it. But if he had only ten dollars he could win out. He had won, and it was but reason to suppose that he could win again. Any old player, imbued with the superstitions of the game, would have told him that to go back was to lose. "I'll go over and see that druggist again," he mused. "Strange that I have lived in this town all my life and don't know where to get money after eleven o'clock at night. I ought to have set my stakes better than that. And now, what excuse can I give for coming back to borrow again so soon? Perhaps he isn't there." Nor was he there. Bodney looked in with anxiety toward the show case behind which he expected to see his friend, and with contempt at the soda-water man. He thought of the envelope. He pictured himself standing there, smiling, a few hours before--and like an arrow came the recollection of the note directed to the preacher. He wheeled about, rushed across the street, jostling through the crowd which was still thick upon the sidewalk, raced around the corner, swam through another crowd, bounded across another street just in front of a cable train, and, breathless, panted up the stairway leading to the Wexton. Before touching the electric button he tore open the envelope, took out the money, destroyed the note; he touched the button and wondered if the black porter would ever come. Undoubtedly the game must have broken up. No, there was the black face, grim in the vitreous light. And there was a vacant seat, his old, lucky seat.

"Bring me ten," he called, as he sat down. And addressing the look-out, he asked if Goyle had been there. He had played a few pots after dinner, but had quit early.

"Did he win?"

"I think he win a few dollars. Said he had an engagement on the West Side."

"Leave me out," said a man, counting his imposing stack of chips. "Never mind, I'll play this one." A hand had been dealt him. "But I've got to go after this hand; oughtn't to stay as long as I do. Got to catch a train. Who opened it?"

"I did," replied a regular.

"Raise you."

"So soon? Well, I'll have to trot you. Tear me one off the roof."

"I'll play these," said the man who had to catch a train.

"You'd better take some. He won't come round again. Well, I'll chip it up to you."

"Raise you three."

The regular raised him back. The man who had to go raised, and the regular fired back at him, nor did the contest end here, but when it did end the regular spread an ace full to overcast with the shade of defeat three queens and a pair. And the man who had been in a hurry continued to sit there. At short intervals, during half an hour or more, he had snapped his watch, but he did not snap it now. Trains might come and trains might go, but he was not compelled to catch them; he lost his last chip, bought more, lost, and, finally, accepted carfare from the man at the desk. Bodney won, and the world threw off its sables and put on bright attire, and at two o'clock he thought of cashing in, though not quite even. He lacked just seventy-five cents--three red chips. He would play one more pot. He lost, and now he was two dollars behind, the pot having been opened for a dollar and twenty-five cents. Pretty soon he had a big hand beaten.

"I see my finish," he said.

"You can't win every pot," replied a railway engineer, who had failed to take out his train. "I have four pat hands beat and every set of threes I pick up. Serves me right. Pot somebody for a bottle of beer."

"You're on," replied the dealer, a comical-looking countryman, known as Cy. "Deal 'em lower, I can see every card," someone remarked; and just at that moment Cy turned over a deuce and replied: "Can't deal 'em much lower than that, can I?"

But who is this going down the stairs just as daylight is breaking? And why is he making such gestures? It is Bodney, and he is swearing that he will never play again.

*CHAPTER XIII.*

*WANTED TO SEE HIS SON.*

Howard had shared his father's sentiment with regard to the old office, for then the sky was clear, but now a cloud had come the atmosphere was changed. And on his way home to dinner, after a day spent without progress, he formed a resolve to tell the old gentleman that he needed a fresher and a brisker air than that blown about the ancient temple of lore. It ought not to hurt him now since he had begun to look upon his son with an eye so dark with censure. Even if his affection had been withdrawn his blood-interest must surely still remain, the young man mused; even though sentiment were dead, there must remain alive a desire to see him prosper, and to prosper in that old place was impossible. He believed that his father was losing his mind; years of dry opinion, of unyielding fact and the dead weight of precedent growing heavier, smothered his mental life.

The household, with the exception of the Judge, was at dinner, and when Howard entered the dining room his mother arose hastily and came to meet him. "Your father wants to see you in the office," she said, and putting her hand on his arm, she added: "I don't know what he wants, but no matter what it is, please bear with him--don't say anything to annoy him."

"Has anything happened?" Howard asked.

"Something, but I don't know what. Someone called, I heard loud talking in the office, and after the caller had gone, your father came out and said that he wanted to see you as soon as you arrived. Be gentle with him, dear."

The old gentleman was sitting at his desk when Howard entered the office. He got up and for a time stood looking at the young man with no word of explanation. "Well, sir," he said, after a time, "what will you do next?"

"What have I done now?"

"No quibbling, sir. You know what you have done."

"I pledge you my honor I do not."

"Pledge me your what! Pledge me your old clothes, but not your honor."

"You wanted to see me, so mother says, and now I should like to know why."

"I suppose that you are so innocent that you can't even guess. Or is it that you are so forgetful of your deeds that you cannot remember? Why did you send that old fool out here?"

"Send an old fool out here! I didn't send anyone."

The old man took a step toward him with his finger uplifted. His eyes were full of anger and his finger shook, a willow in the wind. "How can you deny it? You sent old Dr. Risbin, the morphine eater, out here to see me."

"Oh, did he come out here? But I swear I did not send him. In fact, I told him not to come."

"Ah, and is that the reason he came--because you told him not to? He was never here before in his life, and why should he say that you sent him?"

"Because he is a poor old liar, I suppose. I admit that I saw him in his office and--"

"A gradual acknowledgment is better than no acknowledgment at all. Why did you see him in his office, or why did you speak of me?"

"Father, if you'll only be patient with me I will tell you. Your bearing toward me has been distressful. I was afraid that your mind--"

"Enough of that. My mind is sounder, sir, than yours will ever be. But, suppose something were wrong. Is he the physician to consult? Why, his mind has been dead for years. Why did you consult him if it were not in contempt of me? I ask you why?"

"I was standing in the door of our office and happened to notice his sign just across the hall; and I thought that as he knew you well, I would speak to him. I soon saw that he didn't know what he was talking about, and when he suggested that he ought to see you, I told him no, and changed the subject. That's my offense, and I beg your pardon."

"I will try to believe you," said the Judge, sitting down. "Your office is down town. This one is mine."

"Yes, sir, and I will not intrude. I wouldn't have come in but you wanted--"

The Judge waved his hand. "Our business has been transacted."

"Yours has, but I have something to say. I don't want to occupy that musty old den any longer. It doesn't make any difference to me if there are a thousand javelins of wit sticking in the walls, or a thousand ghosts of oratory floating in the air, I can't make a living so long as I stay in it. I don't want to be of the past, but of the present. Your success was not a past but a present, and my present is as valuable to me as yours was to you."

"You are at liberty to get out of that office as soon as you like. But before you go, put up some sort of emblem expressive of your contempt of all its memories. Stuff out a suit of old clothes with straw, a scarecrow of the past, set it at the desk and call it--me."

"Please don't talk to me that way. I don't mean any disrespect--I want to establish myself on a modern footing. You know that Florence and I--"

"Don't speak of her."

"Why not? She is to be my wife."

"Not with my consent."

"Your consent is desirable, but not absolutely necessary. I don't mean this in impudence; I mean it merely to show my--our determination. I don't know why you should oppose our marriage, and I have no idea as to what extent you will oppose it, but I wish to say that no extreme will have any effect. You say that you are not ill; you swear that your mind is not affected, and yet you refuse to tell me the cause of your change toward me. I must have done something, either consciously or unconsciously, and now again I beg of you to tell me what it is."

The old man leaned forward with his eyes bent upon the floor. "I have seen great actors, but this--go away, Howard. Leave me alone."

"Am I ever to know, sir?"

The old man pointed toward the door, and Howard walked slowly out. His mother stood in the hall. Her eyes were tearful, and taking his arm she held it as if she would say something, but liberated him, motioned him away, and went into the office. The Judge got up, forcing a change upon his countenance, smiled at her, took her hand and led her to a chair. "Now, don't be worried," said he. "I merely reprimanded Howard, as I had a right to do, for sending an old fool, who calls himself a doctor, out here to see me. That's all."

"But what did you mean by calling him an actor? What has he done that he should be acting now?"

"Nothing--nothing at all, I assure you."

"You said he was acting," she persisted.

"Perhaps I did, but I didn't mean it. Oh, yes, acting as if he didn't care for the memories of the old office."

"But, dear, something has come between you and Howard. What is it?"

"Between us, my dear? Surely not. We don't agree on all points; he has his opinions and I have mine; but there is no serious difference between us. Come, I will show you. He and I will eat dinner together."

He led her to the dining room, where Howard sat moodily looking at the table. He glanced up, and the Judge waved his hand with something of his old-time graciousness. "Any callers today, Howard?" he asked, sitting down.

"Goyle, whom I am beginning not to like, and Mr. Bradley."

"Whom you cannot help but like. A good man, conscientious and yet not creed-bound."

"He is building up a great church," said Mrs. Elbridge. "It is almost impossible to get a seat."

"Ah, I don't attend as regularly as I should," remarked the Judge, "but I am going to mend my ways. Howard, shall we go together soon?"

"I shall be delighted, sir."

"Then let us appoint an early day."

The father and the son laughed with each other, and to the mother it was as if new strings, to replace broken ones, had been put upon an old guitar, and she was happy merely to listen; but soon she was called away, attendant upon some duty, and then a darkness fell upon the old man's countenance. "Enough of this," he said. And there was more than surprise in the look which Howard gave him--there was grief in it. "Then your good humor was assumed," he replied.

"We may assume good humor as we assume honesty--for policy," the Judge rejoined.

"I swear I don't understand you."

"Then don't strive to do so when your mother is present. At such times, take me as you find me."

"My pleasure just now was real. It is a grief to know that yours was not. I was in hopes that our difference, whatever it is, for I don't know, was at an end. You led me to believe so."

"Lay no store by what you suppose I lead you to believe. When our difference shall reach an end, if such a thing is possible, I will tell you."

"Then you acknowledge a difference."

"I have not denied it."

"And you will not tell what it is?"

"Now, you are mocking me. Ah, come in, my dear." Mrs. Elbridge had returned. "Yes, we will go to hear Bradley preach. And I warrant I can remember more of the sermon than you."

"Mr. Bradley is here now," said Mrs. Elbridge.

"Ah, is he? Did you tell him I would be in pretty soon?"

"He has come to see Agnes, I think. He asked for her."

"Ah, the sly dog. Well, he couldn't ask for a better girl. Are you going, Howard?"

"Yes, sir, to take a walk with Florence, if she cares to go."

The Judge frowned, but his wife did not notice it. Howard did, however, and was sorry that he spoke of his intention, but he had no opportunity to apologize, if indeed he felt an inclination to do so. It was a sorrow to feel that his father was set against him, but to know that he was trying to influence the girl was more than a sorrow--it was a grief hardened with anger. He found Florence and they went out together, walking southward.

"How soft the air is," she said.

"Nature is breathing low."

They walked on in silence beneath the cottonwoods and elms. Laughter, the buzz of talk and tunes softly hummed came from door-steps and porticos where families and visitors were gathered, to the disgust of Astors and flunkies from over the sea.

"Florence," said Howard, "before I came home this evening I was determined to move out of that old building down town, and to get an office in a modern building. But now I have decided upon something else."

"To remain there out of respect for your father and his memories?"

"No. To get away from this town--out West, to build a home for you. I hope you don't object."

"Object. I am pleased. I think it is the very wisest thing you could do. And as soon as you are ready for me, I will go."

He took her hand and held it till, passing under a lamp, near a group of persons on a flight of steps, he gently let it fall. "Yes, it is the wisest thing I can do. The law is altogether different from what it was when father was in his prime--the practice of it, I mean--and I don't believe I could ever build up here. Oh, I might. The fact is, I don't want to practice here. I am disheartened. The idea of a man, at his age, turning against--do you know what he holds against me, Florence?"

"Howard, you must not ask me."

"Must not ask you? Then you know."

"Please don't ask me."

They were in the light, amid laughter and the humming of tunes, and he waited till they reached a place where there was no one to hear, and then he said: "If you know and love me, it would be unnatural not to tell me."

"Howard, Peter may have denied his Lord, martyrs may have denied their religion, but you can't deny my love."

"No, I can't; but how can you keep from me a secret that concerns me so vitally? Do you suppose I could hold back anything from you?"

"Not if your mother were dead and you had taken an oath upon her memory?"

"Not if God were dead and I had sworn--"

"Howard, you must not talk that way."

He was holding her hand and he felt the ripples of her agitation. "I think I know your secret," he said. "You have cause to believe that his mind is giving way and you don't want to distress me by confessing it--have been sworn to silence, as if it could be kept hidden from me."

She admitted that she did not believe that his mind was sound, and he accepted it as the secret which she had at first held back, but her conscience arose against the deception of leaving him so completely in the dark. "Howard, you have often said in your joking way that I have the honor of a man."

"Yes, the honor of the Roman famed for honor. But honor can be cool, and I need something warmer, now--love. I am, as you know, deeply distressed at father's condition; it has changed nearly all my plans--every plan, in fact, except the one great plan--our plan. Mother begs me to be patient. But for what end, if there is to be no improvement in his treatment of me? I took a hint from Uncle William, not intended for me, that there has been insanity in the family. That's a comforting thought, now, isn't it? Why do you tremble so?"

"Because I believe that there is truth in Uncle William's hint."

"But it should not have any effect upon our plans--our marriage."

"I would marry you, Howard, if you were a maniac."

They were in the dark, and he put his arm about her. "Then, let the whole world go insane," he said.

The soft air murmured among the leaves of the cottonwood. A band of happy children danced about an organ grinder in the street. A fraudulent newsboy cried a murder in Indiana Avenue, and from afar came as if in echo, "All about the murder on Prairie Avenue."

"Howard, knowing me as you do, and supposing that I had not told all I know, and I were to ask you to wait, what would you say?"

"Not knowing you so well I would say, 'out with it,' but knowing you, I would say, 'wait.' But what do you mean?"

"I mean to wait four weeks and no longer."

"Now you begin to mystify me. But we'll not think about it. I wonder what's the trouble with George. I never saw a fellow change so. I believe that fellow Goyle is having a bad influence on him. There is something uncanny about that chap. Did you ever notice his eyes? They have a sort of a draw, like a nerve. Have you noticed it?"

"I have noticed that I don't like him. He looks like a professional spiritualist."

"I guess he is in one sense--in slate writing--guess he has most everything put down on the slate."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Has everything charged that he can. He's a fraud, no doubt."

"Agnes says so."

"Oh, well, what Agnes says couldn't be taken as evidence. She sees a man and has a sort of flutter. If the flutter's pleasant the man's all right; if it isn't, he's all wrong."

"But there might be intuition in a flutter," she said.

"Yes, or prejudice. But George has always been a good judge of men. He has excellent business sense--has invested in lots and can make a fair profit on them at any time he cares to sell. Shall we turn back here?"

Agnes and the preacher sat in the drawing room, she flouncing about on a sofa, and he dignified on a straight-back chair. It is rather remarkable that a preacher is more often attracted by a mischief-loving girl than by a sedate maiden; and this may account for the truth that ministers' sons are sometimes so full of that quality known, impiously, as the devil. In the early days of the English church, when the meek parson, not permitted to hope that he might one day chase a fox or drink deep with the bishop, and who was forced to retire to the servants' hall when the ale and the cheese cakes came on, had cause in secret to offer up thanks that not more than two of his sons were pirates on the high seas. And Bradley sat there watching a cotillion of mischief dancing in the eyes of the girl.

"You have never been connected with any church, have you?"

"Once," she replied, with a graceful flounce. "But I danced out."

"Danced out, did you say?"

"Yes. I got religion in the fall and lost it in the winter--by going to a ball and dancing."

"Why," said the preacher, slowly, patting his knee, "that did not cause you to lose it."

"Well, that's what they said, anyway. And I know I cried after I got home because my religion was gone."

"It is a crime to teach such rubbish."

"Then you don't think I lost it?"

"Surely not."

"Then I must have it yet," she cried, clapping her hands.

"Miss Agnes, your purity is of itself a religion."

"I don't know about that. I am wicked sometimes--I say hateful things."

"But there is no bitterness in your soul."

"I don't know, but I think there is, sometimes. I know once I wished that a woman was dead; but she was the meanest thing you ever saw. And she did die not long after that and I was scared nearly to death--and I prayed and sent flowers to the funeral. Wasn't that wicked?"

The preacher admitted that it was wayward, but he could not find it in his inflamed heart to call her wicked. She was too engaging, too handsome to be wicked. Nature could not so defame herself, he thought, though he knew that there was many a beautiful flower without perfume. But while settled love condemns, love springing into life forgives. "Wayward," said the preacher, "Perhaps thoughtless would be a better word."

"No, it wasn't thoughtless, because I was thinking hard all the time. Don't you get awfully tired studying up something to preach about?"

He smiled upon her. "All work in time becomes laborious, and that is why congregations desire young men--they want freshness. An old man may continue to be fresh, but his brain must be wonderful and his soul must be a garden of flowers. The wisdom of the old man often offends the young and tires the middle-aged; human nature demands entertainment, and the preacher who entertains while he instructs is the one who makes the most friends and the one who indeed does the most good. The unpoetic preacher is doomed; the gospel itself is a poem. The practical man may not read poetry, may not understand it; but he likes it in a sermon, for it breathes the gentleness and the purity of Christ. But poetry cannot be laborious, cannot be dry with studied wisdom, and therefore, when a preacher becomes a great scholar, he forgets his simple poetry and the people begin to forget him."

"My!" exclaimed the girl, "what a sermon you have preached. And it's true, too, I think. I know we had an old man at our church--one of the best old men you ever saw--but they got tired of him. He--he couldn't hold anybody. Even the old men gaped and yawned. He was giving them dry creed. Well, a young man came along and preached for us. And it was like spring time coming in the winter. He made us laugh and cry. People like to cry--it makes them laugh so much better afterward. Well, the old man had to go."

"And after a time, the young man, grown old, will have to go. We must keep this life fresh; we must look for incentives to freshness. A preacher ought to be the most genial of men. And his wife ought to be genial; indeed, innocent mischief would not ill become her."

He looked at her, but she did not look at him. She was leaning back with her eyes half closed. "I hear Mr. Howard and Agnes coming," she said.

*CHAPTER XIV.*

*A PROPOSITION TO MAKE.*

Two weeks passed, and during the time Howard busied himself with the writing of letters to numerous real-estate men and postmasters in the West. Sometimes he would put down his pen to muse over what Florence had said, that she might tell him something after the lapse of four weeks, and more than once had he spoken to her with regard to what seemed to him as her vague information, but she had told him to wait. He knew her well enough not to persist. One of his earliest memories was a certain sort of stubbornness which formed a part of her character. She was gentle and lovable, but strong. He fancied that had she been reared in a different sphere of life she would have become a leader in the Salvation Army.

Bodney came to the office every day, but was so restless that he rarely remained long. Once he came to the door, saw the preacher within, and stole away without speaking. And one afternoon Howard heard him and Goyle tossing high words in the hall, but a few moments later they went out, arm in arm. One morning the Judge came in. "I didn't know but you had left this place," he said, standing near the door and looking about to search for the old memories, Howard mused.

"No, sir. The fact is I may not move to any other office in this town."

"In this town!" the old man repeated. "What other town is there?" To a Chicago man that ought to have established his complete soundness of mind. "I can give you credit for all sorts of--let me say, weakness--but I cannot see why you should be so foolish as to leave this city."

"You came at an early day," said Howard. "I might better my prospects by going to a town that is still in its early day."

"Um, and come back broke. You haven't stuffed that old suit of clothes yet."

"There's time enough for that, sir?"

"What! Then you really intend to do it?"

"Didn't you command me?"

"None of your banter." The Judge walked over to the old iron safe, with the names Elbridge & Bodney slowly rusting into the invisible past, put his hand upon it and stood there with his head bowed. From the street came the sharp clang of a fireman's gong, and the old man sprang back.

"There is a fire somewhere," said Howard.

"There is, sir; it is here," the Judge replied, putting his hand on his breast. Yes, it was now only too evident that his mind was diseased. The young man went to him, took his hand, looked into his eyes. "I beg of you to believe that my love for you is as strong as ever. I don't know how to humble myself, for you have taught me independence, but I would get down on my knees to you if--" The old man threw his hand from him and hastened from the room. In the hall he encountered the opium eating doctor. "Why, my dear Judge, I am surprised to see you out."

"And you will be still more surprised if you don't get out of my way."

"But won't you stop a while for old-time's sake?"

"I will do nothing, sir, but attend to my own affairs, and I request you to do the same."

"Of course, yes, of course. Well, drop in when you are passing."

The old doctor stepped up to the door of Howard's office. The young man stood confronting him. "I have thought over what you said the other day concerning your father, and have come to the conclusion that you are right," said the doctor. "There is something wrong with him."

"But I wish you wouldn't irritate him. And, by the way, why did you tell him that I told you to go out to the house?"

"Didn't you request me to go?"

"I certainly did not."

"Well, really, I misunderstood you. By the way, someone told me that you intended to give up this office. It is a better one than mine, having the advantage of a better view, and I don't know but I might take it."

"I am not going to give it up yet a while."

Bodney came into the hall and the old doctor shuffled into his own den. "I guess he wants to poison someone," said Bodney, nodding toward the doctor's office. "Anybody with you?" he asked.

"No," Howard answered, as they both stepped into the office. "Why?"

"Oh, I am getting so I don't want to see anybody. I feel as if I were a thousand years old," he added, dropping upon a chair.

"You don't look well, that's a fact. What seems to be the trouble?"

"I don't know. Liver, perhaps. Goyle been here today?"

"No, and I don't want him to come again. Now, look here, George, I believe that fellow has a bad influence on you. You are not the same man since you became so intimate with him. What's his business? What does he do?"

"I'd rather not talk about him, Howard."

"Then his influence must be bad. Turn him over to me the next--"

"No," Bodney quickly interposed. "Let everything go along as it is till the proper time and then--then I will attend to him. I am not in a position now to do anything, but one of these days I am going to tell you something that will open your eyes to the perfidy of man--man close to you. Don't say anything more now; I am crushed. I am--"

He leaned forward with his arms on a table and his head on his arms, his eyes hidden from the light. "Why, my dear boy," said Howard, going to him, touching him gently, "don't look at it that way. It is not so bad as that."

"It is worse," said Bodney, in a smothered voice. "It is worse than you can possibly picture it. And when I tell you, you will hate me as you never hated a human being on the earth. Don't ask me now, for I can't tell you. Just simply don't pay any attention to me. But I beg of you not to say a word at home. I have been led into hell, Howard, and there is no way out."

"Oh, yes, there is, my boy. There is the door through which you went in. Go out at it."

"I can't. You don't know."

"Are you in financial trouble? Has that fellow led you--"

"Worse than that, Howard. But I can't tell you now."

Once his long-delayed confession flowed to the very brim of utterance, but he forced it back and sat in silence. Howard went out and Bodney was thankful to be alone with his own misery; but he was not to be long alone--Goyle came in.

"Why, what's the matter, old chap? You seem to be in the dumps. Come, cheer up now. You've got no cause to be so blue? You don't see those fellows over yonder in the bank blue, do you? I guess not. And they are the biggest sort of robbers. I beat the horses today. And here's thirty of what I owe you. Oh, it's coming around all right. You can't keep a squirrel on the ground, you know."

"That's all right," replied Bodney, brightening as he took the bank notes. "Can't keep a squirrel on the ground, but you can shoot him out of a tree."