Chapter 5 SHE SAID THAT SHE WAS STRONG.

Agnes, accustomed to joke with the Judge, now looked at him in astonishment; his face was haggard and his eyes appeared hot with suffering. But he had not forgotten his dignified courtesy. He bowed to her, bade her good morning, as if he had not seen her earlier in the day, said that he was looking for Florence, and asked if she would please find her, that he desired to see her-alone.

Agnes went out at once to find Florence, wondering what could have happened to throw so serious a cast upon the countenance of the Judge; and, left alone, the old man walked slowly up and down the room, talking to himself. "I don't know how to tell her, but she must know of it. It is my duty to tell her." He paused, looked toward the door, and continued: "I am striving to master my heart by smothering it; I must be the master of a dead heart." He paused again and resumed his walk. "Yesterday the world was a laugh, but today it is a groan. I wonder if he saw me. No, and toward him I must bear the burden of silence. A mother's heart would see the accusation in his face, and I must protect her. To keep her shielded is now my only duty in life. That decadent book! It was a seed of degeneracy. Ah, come in," he said, as Florence appeared at the door. Howard had called her eyes the searchlights of sympathy; and she turned those lights upon the old man's face as she came into the room, slowly approaching him.

"Did you send for me-father?"

"Father," he repeated with a catch in his breath that sounded like a sob. "My dear, it comes sweet from your lips, but it falls upon me with reproach." He stood with bowed head, and Florence put her hand on his arm.

"What is the matter, father? Why, you need a doctor. Let me call-"

"No!" came from him like a cry of pain, as he stepped back from her. "You must call no one. Wait a moment. Oh, I've got iron in me-but it is cold, Florence-cold. Wait a moment. Wait."

She stood looking at him, wondering, striving to catch some possible forecast of what might follow, but in his face there was no light save the dull hue of agony. Gradually he became calmer, and then he said: "I am going to tell you something; it is my duty."

"Yes, sir, I am listening."

"But are you strong enough to hear what I have to say?"

"Does it take strength to hear?"

"In your case-yes."

"Then I am strong." She moved closer and stood resolutely before him, looking into his eyes.

"Florence, I know your character; I know that your word is too sacred to break, but this is-is an unparalleled case, and you must be put under oath."

"Judge, instead of administering an oath, you ought to take medicine. Why, I never saw you this way before."

She was about to turn away from him, but he took her by the arm. "Look at me. You never saw me this way before. No. In all my experience I have never heard of a man being so situated. I am a novelty of distress. And you must know what my ailment is, but you must take an oath, a sacred oath, not to speak of it to any human being."

"But if it is so awful, why should I know it? Tell it to a physician."

"It is my duty to tell it to one human being, and you are the one."

"Then I will take the oath."

"Hold up your right hand." She obeyed him. "You swear never to repeat what I tell you."

"Yes, I swear."

"By the memory of your mother?"

"Yes, by the memory of my mother."

"And you hope that the Eternal God may frown upon you if you do not keep your oath?"

"Judge, this is awful."

"Are you going to back out now? Are you afraid?"

"I am not afraid. I hope that the Eternal God may frown upon me if I do not keep my oath."

He took her hand, the hand held high, and said to her, "You will keep your oath. It was disagreeable to take it, but the measure was necessary. And now comes the agonizing part of my duty-and I wish I had died before being compelled to discharge it. Florence, you know that I love you."

"Yes, sir, I know it-could never have doubted it. But why do you speak of it? What has it to do with-"

"Wait. This shall be explained. You must not marry my son."

She stepped back from him and from her clear eyes, always so sympathetic, there came a flash of anger. "You are mad, Judge," she said.

"I grant it. He drove me mad-he sent me to hell."

"And you would drag me there."

"I would save you. It is a duty I owe to the memory of your father and to my own love for you. Yes, it is my duty."

"And it is my duty," she said, with now the light of sympathy in her eyes, "to send for a doctor."

"Wait. You have not heard. Remember you have sworn."

"Yes, and I will keep my oath. No, I have not heard. You have told me nothing. You have simply been mad enough to say that we must not marry." The sympathy had gone from her eyes. "You must know that Howard and I have all our lives lived for each other. I owe you nearly everything, I would make almost any sacrifice for you, but when you even intimate-but I will not reproach you," she said, softening again. "You have not told me why," she added, looking into his eyes.

"My child, it would break your heart."

She straightened and put her hand upon her bosom. "I offer my heart. Break it."

"Florence, my son Howard is a thief."

She snatched her hand from her bosom and raised it as if to strike him, but one look of agony from his eyes, and her hand fell. "Judge, how can you say such a thing? Something has tripped your mind, but how could it fall so low?"

"My mind has not been tripped. It is as firm as a rock. And you cannot doubt my word. Last night I saw him stealing money from the safe, as if I had not always supplied all his wants, and at an alarm which I had fixed, little dreaming who the thief might be, he ran away-a thief. You cannot doubt my word."

Stern of countenance and with her eyes piercing him, regal as the barbaric queens we find in ancient fiction, she stood, and the moment of her silence seemed an age to him. "I pity your word and I doubt your eyes."

"You may pretend to, but you cannot in your heart. You must believe me when I say that I saw him."

"You saw a vision. Your eyes have lied to you."

"I saw no vision. My eyes told a heart-breaking truth. Florence, would you marry a thief?"

"Sir, I would marry Howard if I knew that he had stolen a hammer to nail a god to the cross."

The old man wheeled away from her with a cry. "Oh, crumbled hope-"

Mrs. Elbridge swept into the room, gazing at the Judge. "Why, what is the matter?"

The old man gripped himself together. "Why, I-I have just received a dispatch, telling me-telling me that my brother Henry is dead. Don't tell William-brother Henry is dead."

Mrs. Elbridge went to him and put her arm about him. "And you loved him so," she said. "Poor, dear man, but we must bow to it, and pray for consolation. Don't-don't grieve so, dear. Where is the message?"

The old man looked at Florence. "It distressed him so that I tore it to pieces and threw it away," she said.

The Judge gave her a grateful look. "I thank you," he muttered.