The Judge essayed to answer, and could not. He lifted his hand uncertainly and dropped it, while a thick dew gathered on his temples. Inarticulate sounds came from between his teeth.
“You will come?” said Joe.
Martin Pike bent his head dazedly; and at that the other turned quickly from him and went away without looking back.
Ariel was in the studio, half an hour later, when Joe was announced by the smiling Mr. Warden. Ladew was with her, though upon the point of taking his leave, and Joe marked (with a sinking heart) that the young minister’s cheeks were flushed and his eyes very bright.
“It was a magnificent thing you did, Mr. Louden,” he said, offering his hand heartily; “I saw it, and it was even finer in one way than it was plucky. It somehow straightened things out with such perfect good nature; it made those people feel that what they were doing was ridiculous.”
“So it was,” said Joe.
“Few, under the circumstances, could have acted as if they thought so! And I hope you’ll let me call upon you, Mr. Louden.”
“I hope you will,” he answered; and then, when the minister had departed, stood looking after him with sad eyes, in which there dwelt obscure meditations. Ladew’s word of farewell had covered a deep look at Ariel, which was not to be mistaken by Joseph Louden for anything other than what it was: the clergyman’s secret was an open one, and Joe saw that he was as frank and manly in love as in all other things. “He’s a good fellow,” he said at last, sighing. “A good man.”
Ariel agreed. “And he said more to me than he did to you.”
“Yes, I think it probable,” Joe smiled sorrowfully.
“About YOU, I mean.” He had time to fear that her look admitted confusion before she proceeded: “He said he had never seen anything so fine as your coming down those steps. Ah, he was right! But it was harder for me to watch you, I think, than for you to do it, Joe. I was so horribly afraid — and the crowd between us — if we could have got near you — but we couldn’t — we—”
She faltered, and pressed her hand close upon her eyes.
“We?” asked Joe, slowly. “You mean you and Mr. Ladew?”
“Yes, he was there; but I mean” — her voice ran into a little laugh with a beatific quaver in it— “I mean Colonel Flitcroft and Mr. Bradbury and Mr. Buckalew, too — we were hemmed in together when Mr. Ladew found us — and, oh, Joe, when that cowardly rush started toward you, those three — I’ve heard wonderful things in Paris and Naples, cabmen quarrelling and disappointed beggars — but never anything like them to-day—”
“You mean they were profane?”
“Oh, magnificently — and with such inventiveness! All three begged my pardon afterwards. I didn’t grant it — I blessed them!”
“Did they beg Mr. Ladew’s pardon?”
“Ah, Joe!” she reproached him. “He isn’t a prig. And he’s had to fight some things that you of all men ought to understand. He’s only been here a few months, but he told me that Judge Pike has been against him from the start. It seems that Mr. Ladew is too liberal in his views. And he told me that if it were not for Judge Pike’s losing influence in the church on account of the Beaver Beach story, the Judge would probably have been able to force him to resign; but now he will stay.”
“He wishes to stay, doesn’t he?”
“Very much, I think. And, Joe,” she continued, thoughtfully, “I want you to do something for me. I want you to go to church with me next Sunday.”
“To hear Mr. Ladew?”
“Yes. I wouldn’t ask except for that.”
“Very well,” he consented, with averted eyes. “I’ll go.”
Her face was radiant with the smile she gave him. “It will make me very happy,” she said.
He bent his head and fumbled over some papers he had taken from his pocket. “Will you listen to these memoranda? We have a great deal to go over before eight o’clock.”
Judge Pike stood for a long while where Joe had left him, staring out at the street, apparently. Really he saw nothing. Undoubtedly an image of blurring foliage, cast-iron, cement, and turf, with sunshine smeared over all, flickered upon the retinas of his eyes; but the brain did not accept the picture from the optic nerve. Martin Pike was busy with other visions. Joe Louden had followed him back to his hidden deeds and had read them aloud to him as Gabriel would read them on Judgment-day. Perhaps THIS was the Judgment-day.
Pike had taken charge of Roger Tabor’s affairs because the commissions as agent were not too inconsiderable to be neglected. To make the task simpler, he had sold, as time went on, the various properties of the estate, gradually converting all of them into cash. Then, the opportunity offering, he bought a stock which paid excellent dividends, had it transferred in blank, because if it should prove to Roger’s advantage to sell it, his agent could do so without any formal delays between Paris and Canaan. At least, that is what the Judge had told himself at the time, though it may be that some lurking whisperer in his soul had hinted that it might be well to preserve the great amount of cash in hand, and Roger’s stock was practically that. Then came the evil days. Laboriously, he had built up a name for conservatism which most of the town accepted, but secretly he had always been a gambler: Wall Street was his goal; to adventure there, as one of the great single-eyed Cyclopean man-eaters, his fond ambition; and he had conceived the distillery trust as a means to attain it; but the structure tumbled about his ears; other edifices of his crumbled at the same time; he found himself beset, his solvency endangered, and there was the Tabor stock, quite as good as gold; Roger had just died, and it was enough to save him. — Save? That was a strange way to be remembering it to-day, when Fate grinned at him out of a dreadful mask contorted like the face of Norbert Flitcroft.
Martin Pike knew himself for a fool. What chance had he, though he destroyed the check a thousand times over, to escape the records by which the coil of modern trade duplicates and quadruplicates each slip of scribbled paper? What chance had he against the memories of men? Would the man of whom he had bought, forget that the check was signed by Roger’s agent? Had the bank-clerk forgotten? Thrice fool, Martin Pike, to dream that in a town like Canaan, Norbert or any of his kind could touch an order for so great a sum and forget it! But Martin Pike had not dreamed that; had dreamed nothing. When failure confronted him his mind refused to consider anything but his vital need at the time, and he had supplied that need. And now he grew busy with the future: he saw first the civil suit for restitution, pressed with the ferocity and cunning of one who intended to satisfy a grudge of years; then, perhaps, a criminal prosecution.... But he would fight it! Did they think that such a man was to be overthrown by a breath of air? By a girl, a bank-clerk, and a shyster lawyer? They would find their case difficult to prove in court. He did not believe they COULD prove it. They would be discredited for the attempt upon him and he would win clear; these Beaver Beach scandals would die of inertia presently; there would be a lucky trick in wheat, and Martin Pike would be Martin Pike once more; reinstated, dictator of church, politics, business; all those things which were the breath of his life restored. He would show this pitiful pack what manner of man they hounded! Norbert Flitcroft....
The Judge put his big hand up to his eyes and rubbed them. Curious mechanisms the eyes.... That deer in line with the vision — not a zebra? A zebra after all these years? And yet ... curious, indeed, the eyes! ... a zebra.... Who ever heard of a deer with stripes? The big hand rose from the eyes and ran through the hair which he had always worn rather long. It would seem strange to have it cut very short.... Did they use clippers, perhaps? ...
He started suddenly and realized that his next-door neighbor had passed along the sidewalk with head averted, pretending not to see him. A few weeks ago the man would not have missed the chance of looking in to bow — with proper deference, too! Did he know? He could not know THIS! It must be the Beaver Beach scandal. It must be. It could not be THIS — not yet! But it MIGHT be. How many knew? Louden, Norbert, A
riel — who else? And again the deer took on the strange zebra look.
The Judge walked slowly down to the gate; spoke to the man he had employed in Sam Warden’s place, a Scotchman who had begun to refresh the lawn with a garden hose; bowed affably in response to the salutation of the elder Louden, who was passing, bound homeward from the factory, and returned to the house with thoughtful steps. In the hall he encountered his wife; stopped to speak with her upon various household matters; then entered the library, which was his workroom. He locked the door; tried it, and shook the handle. After satisfying himself of its security, he pulled down the window-shades carefully, and, lighting a gas drop-lamp upon his desk, began to fumble with various documents, which he took from a small safe near by. But his hands were not steady; he dropped the papers, scattering them over the floor, and had great difficulty in picking them up. He perspired heavily: whatever he touched became damp, and he continually mopped his forehead with his sleeve. After a time he gave up the attempt to sort the packets of papers; sank into a chair despairingly, leaving most of them in disorder. A light tap sounded on the door.
“Martin, it’s supper-time.”
With a great effort he made shift to answer: “Yes, I know. You and Mamie go ahead. I’m too busy to-night. I don’t want anything.”
A moment before, he had been a pitiful figure, face distraught, hands incoherent, the whole body incoordinate, but if eyes might have rested upon him as he answered his wife they would have seen a strange thing; he sat, apparently steady and collected, his expression cool, his body quiet, poised exactly to the quality of his reply, for the same strange reason that a young girl smiles archly and coquettes to a telephone.
“But, Martin, you oughtn’t to work so hard. You’ll break down—”
“No fear of that,” he replied, cheerfully. “You can leave something on the sideboard for me.”
After another fluttering remonstrance, she went away, and the room was silent again. His arms rested upon the desk, and his head slowly sank between his elbows. When he lifted it again the clock on the mantel-piece had tinkled once. It was half-past seven. He took a sheet of note-paper from a box before him and began to write, but when he had finished the words, “My dear wife and Mamie,” his fingers shook so violently that he could go no further. He placed his left hand over the back of his right to steady it, but found the device unavailing: the pen left mere zigzags on the page, and he dropped it.
He opened a lower drawer of the desk and took out of it a pistol; rose, went to the door, tried it once more, and again was satisfied of his seclusion. Then he took the weapon in both hands, the handle against his fingers, one thumb against the trigger, and, shaking with nausea, lifted it to the level of his eyes. His will betrayed him; he could not contract his thumb upon the trigger, and, with a convulsive shiver, he dropped the revolver upon the desk.
He locked the door of the room behind him, crept down the stairs and out of the front-door. He walked shamblingly, when he reached the street, keeping close to the fences as he went on, now and then touching the pickets with his hands like a feeble old man.
He had always been prompt; it was one of the things of which he had been proud: in all his life he had never failed to keep a business engagement precisely upon the appointed time, and the Court-house bell clanged eight when Sam Warden opened the door for his old employer to-night.
The two young people looked up gravely from the script-laden table before them as Martin Pike came into the strong lamplight out of the dimness of the hall, where only a taper burned. He shambled a few limp steps into the room and came to a halt. Big as he was, his clothes hung upon him loosely, like coverlets upon a collapsed bed; and he seemed but a distorted image of himself, as if (save for the dull and reddened eyes) he had been made of yellowish wax and had been left too long in the sun. Abject, hopeless, his attitude a confession of ruin and shame, he stood before his judges in such wretchedness that, in comparison, the figure of Happy Fear, facing the court-room through his darkest hour, was one to be envied.
“Well,” he said, brokenly, “what are you going to do?”
Joe Louden looked at him with great intentness for several moments. Then he rose and came forward. “Sit down, Judge,” he said. “It’s all right. Don’t worry.”
XXV. THE JURY COMES IN
MRS. FLITCROFT, AT breakfast on the following morning, continued a disquisition which had ceased, the previous night, only because of a provoking human incapacity to exist without sleep. Her theme was one which had exclusively occupied her since the passing of Eskew, and, her rheumatism having improved so that she could leave her chair, she had become a sort of walking serial; Norbert and his grandfather being well assured that, whenever they left the house, the same story was to be continued upon their reappearance. The Tocsin had been her great comfort: she was but one helpless woman against two strong men; therefore she sorely needed assistance in her attack upon them, and the invaluable newspaper gave it in generous measure.
“Yes, young man,” she said, as she lifted her first spoonful of oatmeal, “you BETTER read the Tocsin!”
“I AM reading it,” responded Norbert, who was almost concealed by the paper.
“And your grandfather better read it!” she continued, severely.
“I already have,” said the Colonel, promptly. “Have you?”
“No, but you can be sure I will!” The good lady gave the effect of tossing her head. “And you better take what it says to heart, you and some others. It’s a wonder to me that you and Buckalew and old Peter don’t go and hold that Happy Fear’s hand durin’ the trial! And as for Joe Louden, his step-mother’s own sister, Jane, says to me only yesterday afternoon, ‘Why, law! Mrs. Flitcroft,’ she says, ‘it’s a wonder to me,’ she says, ‘that your husband and those two other old fools don’t lay down in the gutter and let that Joe Louden walk over ’em.’”
“Did Jane Quimby say ‘those two other old fools’?” inquired the Colonel, in a manner which indicated that he might see Mr. Quimby in regard to the slander.
“I can’t say as I remember just precisely her exact words,” admitted Mrs. Flitcroft, “but that was the sense of ’em! You’ve made yourselves the laughin’-stock of the whole town!”
“Oh, we have?”
“And I’d like to know” — her voice became shrill and goading— “I’d like to know what Judge Pike thinks of you and Norbert! I should think you’d be ashamed to have him pass you in the street.”
“I’ve quit speaking to him,” said Norbert, coldly, “ever since I heard he owned Beaver Beach.”
“That story ain’t proved yet!” returned his grandmother, with much irascibility.
“Well, it will be; but that’s not all.” Norbert wagged his head. “You may be a little surprised within the next few days.”
“I’ve been surprised for the PAST few!” she replied, with a bitterness which overrode her satisfaction in the effectiveness of the retort. “Surprised! I’d like to know who wouldn’t be surprised when half the town acts like it’s gone crazy. People PRAISIN’ that fellow, that nobody in their sober minds and senses never in their lives had a good word for before! Why, there was more talk yesterday about his doin’s at the Court-house — you’d of thought he was Phil Sheridan! It’s ‘Joe Louden’ here and ‘Joe Louden’ there, and ‘Joe Louden’ this and ‘Joe Louden’ that, till I’m sick of the name!”
“Then why don’t you quit saying it?” asked the Colonel, reasonably.
“Because it’d OUGHT to be said!” she exclaimed, with great heat. “Because he’d ought to be held up to the community to be despised. You let me have that paper a minute,” she pursued, vehemently; “you just let me have the Tocsin and I’ll read you out some things about him that ‘ll show him in his true light!”
“All right,” said Norbert, suddenly handing her the paper. “Go ahead.”
And after the exchange of a single glance the two gentlemen composed themselves to listen.
“Ha!” exc
laimed Mrs. Flitcroft. “Here it is in head-lines on the first page. ‘Defence Scores Again and Again. Ridiculous Behavior of a Would-Be Mob. Louden’s—’” She paused, removed her spectacles, examined them dubiously, restored them to place, and continued: “‘Louden’s Masterly Conduct and Well-Deserved—’” she paused again, incredulous—”’Well-Deserved Triumph—’”
“Go on,” said the Colonel, softly.
“Indeed I will!” the old lady replied. “Do you think I don’t know sarcasm when I see it? Ha, ha!” She laughed with great heartiness. “I reckon I WILL go on! You listen and try to LEARN something from it!” She resumed the reading:
“‘It is generally admitted that after yesterday’s sitting of the court, the prosecution in the Fear-Cory murder trial has not a leg to stand on. Louden’s fight for his client has been, it must be confessed, of a most splendid and talented order, and the bottom has fallen out of the case for the State, while a verdict of Not Guilty, it is now conceded, is the general wish of those who have attended and followed the trial. But the most interesting event of the day took place after the session, when some miscreants undertook to mob the attorney for the defence in the Court-house yard. He met the attack with a coolness and nerve which have won him a popularity that—’” Mrs. Flitcroft again faltered.
“Go on,” repeated the Colonel. “There’s a great deal more.”
“Look at the editorials,” suggested Norbert. “There’s one on the same subject.”
Mrs. Flitcroft, her theory of the Tocsin’s sarcasm somewhat shaken, turned the page. “We Confess a Mistake” was the rubric above the leader, and she uttered a cry of triumph, for she thought the mistake was what she had just been reading, and that the editorial would apologize for the incomprehensible journalistic error upon the first page. “‘The best of us make mistakes, and it is well to have a change of heart sometimes.’” (Thus Eugene’s successor had written, and so Mrs. Flitcroft read.) “‘An open confession is good for the soul. The Tocsin has changed its mind in regard to certain matters, and means to say so freely and frankly. After yesterday’s events in connection with the murder trial before our public, the evidence being now all presented, for we understand that neither side has more to offer, it is generally conceded that all good citizens are hopeful of a verdict of acquittal; and the Tocsin is a good citizen. No good citizen would willingly see an innocent man punished, and that our city is not to be disgraced by such a miscarriage of justice is due to the efforts of the attorney for the defendant, who has gained credit not only by his masterly management of this case, but by his splendid conduct in the face of danger yesterday afternoon. He has distinguished himself so greatly that we frankly assert that our citizens may point with pride to—’” Mrs. Flitcroft’s voice, at the beginning pitched to a high exultation, had gradually lowered in key and dropped down the scale till it disappeared altogether.
Collected Works of Booth Tarkington Page 91
