Judge Elbridge

When John Elbridge retired from the bench, the newspapers said that he had been an honorable judge. He was not a pioneer, but had come to Chicago at a time which we now call an early day, when churches rang their bells where now there is a jungle of trade, when the legs of the Giant of the West were in the ache of "growing pains;" at a time when none but the most visionary dreamed that a mud-hole full of old boots, dead rats, cats, dogs, could ever be worth a million of dollars. Elbridge came from Maryland, with a scant wardrobe, a lawyer's diploma, and the confident ambition of youth.

It was not long before he formed a copartnership with a young man named Bodney, a Kentuckian, in whose mind still lived the chimes of Henry Clay's bells-a memory that not so much fitted him to the law as it atuned him to oratory; but in those days the bar could be eloquent without inviting the pitying smile which means, "Oh, yes, it sounds all right, but it's crude." Elbridge was the student of the firm, and Bodney the orator, not a bad combination in the law at that time, for what one did not know the other was prepared to assert. They prospered in a way, but never had the forethought to invest in the magic mud-hole; took wives unto themselves, and, in the opinion of the "orator," settled down to dull and uneventful honesty. The years, like racing horses, flew round and round the track, and a palace of trade grew out of the mud-hole. Bodney and his wife passed away, leaving two children, a boy and a girl. Elbridge had stood at the bedside of his partner, who was following his wife into the eternal shadow. "Don't worry about the children, Dan; they are mine," said the "student," and the "orator" passed away in peace. And they were his. He took them to his home to be brother and sister to his son; and the years raced round and round the track.

At the time of his retirement from the bench the Judge was asked why he refused longer to serve the people. "Because," said he, "I am beginning to be afraid of my judgment; I am becoming too careful-like the old engineer who can't summon the nerve to bring his train in on time."

Mrs. Elbridge had been known as a local "beauty." It was said that the "orator" had rung his Henry Clay bells for her hand, and with philosophy, a rare quality among orators, had accepted defeat, to spur himself into another contest and to win a woman not unknown to "looks." Rachel Fry, afterward Mrs. Elbridge, had written verses to sky tints and lake hues, and the "student" believed that he had won her with a volume of Keats, bound in blue, the color of one of her own lake odes. And in the reminiscent humor of his older days he was wont to laugh over it until he himself was shot through with a metric thrill, when in measure he strove to recall the past; and then she had the laugh on him. It may be a mere notion, but it seems that the young doctor and the old lawyer are much inclined to write verses, for among the papers of many an aged jurist sonnets are found, and editors are well acquainted with the beguiling smile of the young physician. So the "pink fleece of the cloud-sheep," and the "blue, mysterious soul of the lake," inspirations of the "beauty's" earlier years, found sympathy in the "student's" "mellow morning of sunlit hope," penned in the late afternoon of life. But verses, be they ever so bad, are the marks of refinement, and there was no vulgar streak in the mind of the Judge. His weakness, and he possessed more than one, was the doggedness with which he held to a conviction. His mind was not at all times clear; a neighbor said that he often found himself in a cloud of dust that arose from ancient law books; and it is a fact that an able judge is sometimes a man of strong prejudices. At the time of this narration he was still hale, good humored, a little given to the pedantry of advancing years, devoted to his family, impressive in manner, with his high forehead and thin gray hair; firm of step, heavy in the shoulders, not much above medium height, cleanly shaven, with full lips slightly pouting. Following his own idea of comfort, he had planned his house, a large brick building in Indiana Avenue, at first far out, but now within easy reach of the area where the city's pile-driving heart beats with increasing violence. It was a happy household. The son, Howard, was a manly fellow, studious but wide awake, and upon him the old man rested a precious hope. The mother was a blonde, and nature had given her cast to the boy, blue eyes and yellowish hair; and it was said that if he had a vanity it lay in his bronze beard, which he kept neatly trimmed-and it had come early, this mark of the matured man. His foster brother, George Bodney, was dark, inclined to restlessness, over-impressionable, nervous. The old man had another precious hope-Florence, Bodney's sister; but of this he shall tell in his own words. A stranger might not have seen anything striking about the girl; but all acquaintances thought her handsome. At school she had been called a "character," not that she was original to the degree of being "queer," but because she acted in a manner prematurely old, discussing serious questions with her teachers, debating the problems of life. Her hobby was honor, a virtue which a cynic has declared is more often found among boys than among girls. She liked to read of martyrs, not that there was heaven in their faith, but because she thought it glorious to suffer and to die for a principle, no matter what that principle might happen to be.

There was one other member of the family, William, the Judge's brother. He looked like a caricature of the "student," with thinner hair and thicker lips. He had not given his energies to any one calling; shiftless is the word best fitted to set him forth. He had lived in different parts of the far West, had been dissatisfied with all places because a failure in all, and had come to spend the remainder of his days with his brother in Chicago. Here, he declared, a man could not find disappointment, for no man of sense expected anything but permission to breathe and to keep out of the way. Friends knew that he was the Judge's standing joke, a family laughing stock, a humorous burden, a necessary idleness. Of course, it was natural for him to feel that he owned the place.

Howard and George Bodney were bred to the law, and recently had been admitted to the bar. The "starvation period" of the average young lawyer did not arise out of dull prospect to confront them; they were to make their way, it was true, but they could study and wait. Howard was ambitious, and his mind was grasping. It was said that he "gulped" a book. He did not stop at the stern texts which were to serve as a part of his necessary equipment, but gave himself excursions among those graces of half-idle minds which light a torch for souls that may be greater. He peeped into the odd corners of thought. Once he startled his father by declaring that genius was the unconscious wisdom of ignorance.

"It is the reflection of hard work," said the old man. The boy was the corner-stone of his hope; he wanted to feel that his work was to go on, generation after generation, a pardonable vanity, but a vanity nevertheless. He wanted the boy to be practical, for a speculative youth is not a good perpetuator of a father's career. And on one occasion the boy was taken gently to task for reading a decadent book.

"I like to brush up against different minds," said he.

"But nothing is gained by brushing against a diseased mind."

"We might learn something from a mad dog."

"But all of value that we may learn from him," said the old man, "is to keep out of his way. I must request you not to read such books."

Bodney had not distinguished himself. He appeared to be restless and dissatisfied with himself and with his prospects. He thought that the law afforded but a slow and tedious way to make money, and deplored the shortsightedness of his father and his benefactor for not having invested in the mud-hole. Nervousness may inspire force of character, but it more often induces weakness. In many respects Bodney was weak. But the Judge, who should have been a shrewd observer of men as well as of principles, did not see it. In the "youth of old age," a man who, in his younger days, may have been keenly of the world, sometimes turns upon life the goggle eye of optimism.

After his retirement from the bench and the more active affairs of the law, the Judge fitted up an office at his home, with desks, long table covered with green baize, books and safe.

One evening Bodney sat alone in the home office, deeply brooding. The household was at dinner, and he heard the hearty laughter of the Judge. He was joking with a guest, a preacher, a good fellow. The young man's brow was dark. Of late he had formed an association with a man named Goyle, clearly an adventurer, but a man to inflame the fancy of a morbid nature. Bodney and Goyle had been much together, at the house and at the office down town, but no one made any objection. Personal freedom was a hobby with the Judge.

There were two doors leading into the office, one opening into a hall, the other into a passageway communicating directly with the street. Through the door opening into the passage Goyle entered. He carried a valise in his hand. Bodney looked up.

"Halloa, Goyle," said he. "Come in."

"Halloa, Goyle," said he. "Come in."

"That's what I'm doing," Goyle replied, putting down the valise near the door and advancing toward the desk at which Bodney was seated.

"Sit down," said Bodney.

"That's what I'm going to do," Goyle replied.

He sat down, and for a time both were silent. "Where's everybody?" Goyle asked.

The bass laughter of the Judge and the contralto of a woman's mirth were heard.

"At dinner," said Bodney, nodding toward the dining room.

"Don't you eat?"

"Sometimes," Bodney answered, and then after a short silence he asked: "Did you get my note?"

"Yes."

"What do you think?"

"I think you're scared," said Goyle.

Bodney gave him a quick look. "Who wouldn't be?"

"I wouldn't."

"Yes, you would. It's this way, and there's no other way to it: The old man has missed money from the safe. He hasn't said so, but I can tell by the way he acts."

Goyle smiled. "Well, but no one but himself knows the combination of the safe. He doesn't know that you found a piece of paper with the figures on it, does he?"

"Of course not, but it won't be long before he begins to suspect someone."

"Which, necessarily, fastens it on you. Is that it?"

"Doesn't it look like it?"

"Oh, it might," said Goyle. "That is, if you let it?"

Bodney looked at him with reproach. "If I let it. How the deuce can I help it? You don't suppose he'd suspect his son Howard, do you? No man could trust a son more than he does."

Goyle shrugged his shoulders. "Didn't trust him with the combination of the safe, did he?"

"No, for it's his idea of business not to trust anyone absolutely. He laughs and jokes all right enough, and says that this is a fine old world, but he hasn't quite forgotten that he practiced law among rascals."

"Yes," said Goyle, leaning back and stretching himself. "This soft air makes me lazy. It's not natural, you know, to be comfortable in Chicago. What were we talking about?"

Bodney turned upon him almost fiercely, but the visitor looked at him with the self-command of impudent laziness. He was not given to starts. He was born a rascal, and had cultivated his legacy. Coolness may be a virtue; it is also the strongest weapon of the scoundrel, and Goyle was always cool. He motioned with his hand, bowed, smiled, and Bodney's anger was gone.

"Don't get hot, old man," said he. "Everything is all right. If it isn't, we'll make it so. Oh, yes, we were talking about the old gentleman's suspicions. And we've got to take care of them. If I understand it, Howard is to marry your sister. You are all of a family. Your father and the Judge were law partners years ago, and you and your sister were adopted by-"

Bodney waved his hand impatiently. "We know all about that. Yes, and he has been a father to me and I have been-"

"A villain, necessarily," Goyle broke in. "Villainy is born in us, and for a time we may hide out our inheritance, but we can't get away from it. And it's only the weak that struggle against it. The lamb is born with wool and the dog with hair. No, we can't get away from it."

"But we needn't delight in it," said Bodney, with a faint struggle.

"No, and we needn't lie down on it, either. But, to business. The Judge must know who took the money from the safe."

Bodney started. "What, do you think I am going to tell him?"

Goyle yawned. "No, you must show him."

"Show him!"

"Yes. He must see his son Howard take the money."

Bodney stood up and looked down upon him. "Goyle, are you a fool, or do you take me for one? Must see Howard take the money! What do you mean? Do you think I can bribe Howard to take it? I don't understand you."

"Sit down," said Goyle, and Bodney obeyed, looking at him. Goyle lighted a cigarette, turned and pointed to the valise. "The thief is in that grip, and the Judge must see him take the money from the safe. Listen to me a minute. Among my numerous accomplishments I number several failures-one as an actor. But we learn more from a failure than from a success. All right. I heard Howard say that tonight he is going to a reception. In that grip is his semblance-make-up. At the proper time, after Howard is gone, you must lead the Judge in here and see me, as Howard, take money from the safe. On the mother's account the old man can be made to keep quiet-to hold his tongue, and not even say anything to his son. He changes his combination, the affair blows over-and we've got the money."

"Monstrous!" exclaimed Bodney, jumping up and glaring at Goyle.

"Do you think so? Sit down."

Bodney sat down. "Yes, I do think so," he said.

"What, the crime or the-"

"Both. And the trick! Anybody could see through it. It's nonsense, it's rot."

"Yes? Now, let me tell you, Brother Bodney, that life itself is but a trick. The world worships a trick-art, literature, music-all tricks. And what sort of art is the most successful? Bold art. What sort of scoundrel is the most admired by the world? The bold scoundrel. Bold art, my boy."

"But art has its limits and its rules," Bodney feebly protested.

Goyle dropped the stub of his cigarette upon the floor. "Yes, rules for imitators to follow. Originals break rules. Rules are made by weaklings to hamper the success of the strong. You've got to take the right view of life," he said, slowly lifting his hand and slowly letting it drop upon his knee. "We are living in the nervous atmosphere of adventure and bold trickery. The spirit of this town hates the stagnant; we wipe our muddy feet on tradition. To us the pig squeal of the present is sweeter than the flute of the past. You and I are intellectual failures, and why? The town is against us. Put an advertisement in tomorrow morning's newspaper-'Graduates of Harvard and Yale wanted, fifteen dollars a week,' and see how many answers you'll get. A cartload-and from men who were turned out prepared to fight the battle of life. Think of it. The man who has had his mind trained to failure, whose teaching has made him a refined weakling, with a mind full of quotations and mystic theories-that man has a cause to be avenged upon life, upon society for misleading him. Hear them laughing in there? You don't hear me laughing. I've got nothing to laugh about. You and I know that there isn't any future beyond this infernal life. Then, why hesitate to do anything that works toward our advantage here? I'm talking to your reason now. We have gambled, and we have lost." He turned and shook his finger at the valise. "The thief, I tell you, is in that grip, and he will get us out. If it fails, of course, we are done for, but we are done for if we don't try. I know it's a bold trick, but that's in its favor. It's too bold to be expected or understood. It's no time to think of gratitude. We've got to act. Give me the combination."

They got up, and Bodney stood trembling. He seemed to be struggling to break loose from something that held him in its grasp. Goyle gazed into his eyes. Bodney put up his hand as if to shield them from a dazzling light.

"Give me the combination."

Bodney tore loose from the something that seemed to be gripping him, and started on a run toward the door. Goyle caught him, put his hand on him, held him.

"I hear them coming. Give me that piece of paper."

Bodney gave him a slip of paper. Goyle took up the valise. "Come on," he said, and Bodney followed him out through the door leading into the passage.