On one of RoBards’ visits to Tuliptree, Patty said with a dark look and a hesitant manner:
“David, I’ve been thinking.”
That word “David” made him lift his head with eagerness. She went on:
“You remember how good Doctor Matson was when poor Papa died? How he helped us conceal the terrible truth? I was wondering—don’t you suppose if you asked him now—he always liked Immy, you know—and—if you appealed to him——”
RoBards groaned aloud with horror.
“Hush! in God’s name! Would you ask a judge to compound a felony? to connive at murder?”
“Oh,” Patty sighed, “I forgot. You used to be a father, and now you are a judge.”
The little laugh that rattled in her throat was the most bloodcurdling sound he had ever heard.
Its mockery of his ignoble majesty pursued him everywhere he went. He heard it when he sat on the bench and glowered down at the wretches who came before him with their pleading counselors. It made a vanity of all dignity, of justice. And what was “justice” indeed, but a crime against the helpless? First, their passions swept them into deeds they did not want to commit; then other men seized them and added disgrace to remorse.
Which was the higher duty—the father’s to fight the world for his young? Or the judge’s to defend an imaginary ideal against the laws of mercy?