The judge was in quite a peaceful frame of mind, as he drove away behind his blacks, while Louie looked after him with a feeling of contempt and a wonder that Herbert could be so nice with such a conceited father. It was the first time she had given a thought to the back rent on the bank, of which he had reminded her, and for which he did not “care a cent!”
“But it shall be paid at once. We will not be indebted to Judge White,” she said, as she went to her father, telling him of the judge’s call and imitating his manner so perfectly that her father laughed aloud and told her she would make a good actress if she chose to employ her talent in that direction.
“The judge meant to be kind,” he said, “and I am much obliged to him for his intended offer of Bay Cottage. I might have been glad to accept it but for this unknown friend who so generously allows us to stay here. I’ve no idea who it is?”
“No,” Louie answered. “I’ve no idea, for Mr. Blake does not give me the slightest hint, but it is very kind in him, whoever he is. Everybody is kind. I did not know we had so many friends.”
“It is for you and your mother, not for me, I do not deserve any consideration,” Mr. Grey replied, the old sad, hopeless look settling on his face which had brightened a little when Louie described the judge’s visit; but whether he deserved kindness or not he had it from almost every source and the failure seemed forgotten as the days went by, and the shadows grew darker and darker in the room where Louie kept her tireless watch. Even Godfrey Sheldon came over with Jack and Jill, offering to take the sick man for an airing, if he were able to go.
Louie thanked him and said, “Father will never go out again till he is carried out. The doctor says so, and I know it without his saying. He is weaker than usual this morning, but I will tell him of your kindness.”
Her father was sleeping when she returned to him, and continued drowsy until late in the afternoon, when he roused up, seemingly in possession of all his faculties, which for a few days had been rather misty. How his eyes were bright and his voice natural, as he asked first how his wife was and then what time it was.
“You are better,” Louie said, smoothing his hair, which was growing white so fast.
“No, daughter,” he answered, “not really better; it is the reaction which sometimes comes before the last change, and is given me so that I may tell you what I must tell to somebody. Confession is good for the troubled conscience, they say, and I must try it, and see if there is help for this conscience of mine, which constantly conjures up all the specters of the past—and there are so many of them.”
He was silent a moment, and then said, “Sit down by me while I tell you, and hold my hand, and when you drop it I shall know that you think of me as I deserve.”