SENT A MESSAGE.
William went to the office door and found it locked. This was so singular a happening that the old fellow stalked about the house, marveling over it and complaining against an innovation that shut a man out of an apartment that had served so long as a sort of public domain. It was like the closing of a park or a county road. Everyone laughed at him and he snorted. In the vocabulary of William's contempt, the snort was the strongest expression. "It is all right to laugh," said he, "but I want to tell you that there has got to be a change here." He returned to the office door and knocked upon it, but his knuckles aroused no heed within. He could hear the Judge walking up and down. Bodney had been gone nearly half an hour. But the Judge had not noted the time. To him, life was but a conflicting, mental eternity, and he was in the whirling midst of it. For a long time he sat with his head on the table, one arm stretched out before him, the other hanging limp; then he staggered about the room, and then sat down with his head in his hands. To the eye turned inward all was black, till gradually a light appeared, seeming softly to shine upon a hideous shape, crouching in a dark corner. He gazed upon it, and it spoke, shrinking further back from the soft light. "I am your injustice," it said. He got up, raised a window, and stood looking out upon the sunlight in the street. But he shivered as if with cold, and his lips moved as if he were talking and swallowing his words down into deep silence. A gladness began to form in his heart. His son was innocent, but in that innocence there was a reproach. He had been unnatural as a father, and might he not many a time have been unjust as a judge? He acknowledged to himself that he must have decided in favor of error while on the bench. His retirement was a sort of unconscious justice. He realized that his mind had not been sound. He had felt a coming weakness. But now he felt a coming strength. The trial through which he had passed must have served as a test. It was to restore or ruin his mental life. But why should there have been such a test, and why should the innocent have suffered? It would not do to reason, and he banished the test idea, fighting it off. Still, he acknowledged that his mind had sickened and that now it was gaining strength. He remembered his frivolity and loathed it, his jokes with William at a time when his heart was heavy and swollen. "Unnatural as a father and inconsistent as a man," he muttered. "But who is to judge of man's naturalness? One kink in the mind and the entire world is changed." William knocked again, and now the Judge opened the door. The old fellow looked at his brother and exclaimed:
"Why, what has happened, John?"
"Nothing, except that I have been really ill. But I am almost recovered. My mind has passed through a sort of crisis, William. I can now look back and see that I was not right. My present strength tells me of my former weakness. I am soon to be entirely well."
"Well, I am glad to hear that. It is particularly gratifying to me. And I suppose that you are, or, at least, soon will be, willing to concede that I am sometimes correct with regards to my dates."
"Yes, but we won't mention that. It is of no importance."
"What! No importance? Take care, John, you'll get back where you were, for when a man says that a date is of no importance, he's in danger."
"William, I want you to do me a favor. I am almost afraid to trust myself to go out just now. Wait a moment." He went to his desk, found a telegraph blank, and upon it wrote the following message: "The light has broken. Come back at once." William read the words and looked at him. "Go to the station," said the Judge, "and send this to Howard, in care of the conductor. It is not a secret, mind you, but don't stay to show it. They would delay you with puzzling over it."
"All right, I'll jump into a cab and go right over. I know the station. It's only a few blocks from here. He didn't go all the way down town. I heard him tell his mother. By the way," William added, "I found one of Howard's French books—"
"Put it back where you found it."