"Why, naturally."
"He took to drinking hard and didn't work—couldn't. And he made the house miserable, of course. They quarrelled terribly, he beat her.... She reproached him for being a useless drunken loafer, spoiling her life and the children's—then she told him she wished he'd died.... It was after that...."
Carlin was silent. The Judge nodded his white head and said abruptly: "Yes, the poor simpleton—lost his head."
"He doesn't remember how it happened—he was drunk. But he doesn't deny it—can't, of course," said Carlin in a low voice. "He said to me that he could hardly believe it ... he'd always loved her ... he said it didn't seem possible he could have hurt her ... he thought he must have been crazy ... he wished he had been killed down south, then it wouldn't have happened and she would have been happy, and the children taken care of, while now.... And then he cried...."
Carlin's voice broke, and he turned away to the window. The Judge's eyes followed him eagerly, dwelt on his bent head, his bowed shoulders for some moments.
"The poor fool," he said, taking off his spectacles and looking at them critically.
"Judge, it was an awful thing to see—that big fellow, all crumpled up like a wet rag—broken, crushed—helpless as a baby,—not a soul to put out a hand to him—and he was sinking, lost—lost forever.... And a good man too, that's the mystery ... why, Judge, anybody might have acted that way—might have ... if people could only see that, feel it...."
The Judge had polished his spectacles to a nicety and now put them on and stood up.
"Well, Laurence, I guess you can make them feel it—I guess you can, my boy!" he burst out.
His broad face lighted up with enthusiasm, with professional ardour.