“You know the little white marks on the nails which, as children, we used to say came from telling lies? Well, my mania was that if I told nothing but lies, lied constantly and consistently, I could turn mine entirely white. I tried and I succeeded. The will, obeying a diseased mind, plays queer pranks. I was partly proud of the result of my experiment, partly ashamed of it. So I took to wearing gloves and gauntlets most of the time. I began to get a reputation as a phenomenal liar. Once I overheard a man say, ‘Dr. Bently says it is so? Then that settles it; it’s a lie that would turn Beelzebub green with envy. Why, I wouldn’t believe the doctor if he swore to anything on seventeen cubic miles of Bibles in the original Hebrew.’
“I could have hugged him with grateful delight. But friends and practice dropped away. People began to look at me askance, and before Mrs. Johnstone died she was about the only patient of our class I had left. The street urchins used to yell at me, ‘Hallo, Ananias! where’s Sapphira?’ and ‘Berny Bently; or, The Hidden Hand.’ So I came here and hid myself in this great city, where no one cares for anything but money and would make much of a rich man if he had claws, hoofs, horns and a tail all white as snow or black as ink.”
While he spoke I had watched his nails closely and curiously, and the pink spots had spread and spread, slowly but surely, until the normal, healthy color had come back to them. I told him, but he never looked at them. Instead, he got up, came over to me, took my two hands in his and said slowly and reverently: “Thank God and you, dear friend, I am cured!” His splendid eyes were filled with tears, and his exquisite voice was solemn and broken with emotion. My own eyes were rather misty, but then they were never much good; and, for a lawyer, I was quite moved. I gave him my friendship then and there, and I have never regretted it.
Two weeks later, starting from my own home, where Mrs. Abbott and Bently had been our most welcome guests, we all went to Laneville, where we met Mr. and Mrs. Johnstone, whom we had summoned back by cable. They made us but little trouble, being cowards as well as scoundrels. Mrs. Abbott, however—good, kindly, generous little soul—was so unfeignedly sorry for her unworthy brother that she wished to let him have the lion’s share of the big property; but we overruled the soft-hearted child-woman and made her take her full share. I had the pleasure, subsequently, of expressing to Mr. Johnstone exactly what I thought of him, and I had considerable difficulty in restraining the doctor from giving him a beating.
Not long after I began divorce proceedings for Mrs. Abbott, but her rascally husband saved her and me the annoyance of going into court by opportunely and thoughtfully dying.
My fee was the largest I have ever received from an individual client, and, in some extenuation for accepting such a small fortune, I would like to say that it was fairly forced on me by the grateful little creature I love as though she were my own child.
My wife promptly demanded, and got, her little commission of one-half, and said she was the best drummer of practice and big-paying clients that any lawyer ever had. She is, God bless her! And, by the way, we live in the Goldsborough house, and my dear lady spends a good part of her time on the piazza she bought with her half of my fee.
Oh, yes! I forgot to mention that Mrs. Abbott’s name is now Bently. They call her husband “the good physician” in our town, and his word is as good as any man’s bond. The doctor has lost interest in his hands, but his sweet and devoted little wife admires them extravagantly. They are still very handsome, but brown as berries, and his nails are as pink as yours or mine.