Chapter XX The Preacher Confesses
Bradley had argued with himself that at the proper time it would be simple enough to tell the girl that he loved her, and no doubt he was right, but the time did not come. He sat beside her on the sofa, when the Judge and Florence had quitted the room, and he looked into her eyes, and the proper words arose like a graceful flight of birds, rich in bright feathers, but they scattered and flew away. He could have delivered an oration upon beauty and love, and he did; but he feared to surprise her by telling her that he loved her. He did not dream that she had discovered it coming before he felt it. It was not possible for so innocent a creature to know so much. He was a large man, and large men may have sentiment, but sometimes they lack sentimental nerve.
“You don’t believe now that I talked what you termed sweet to that poor girl, do you?”
“Oh, I don’t know. But I don’t see why she should look at you that way even if you did—did lead her. It must have looked nice, you going along leading her. What do you suppose people thought?”
“No one—one saw me lead her,” Bradley stammered.
“Oh, then it was in the dark. Led her in the dark.”
“She didn’t mean that I really took her by the hand and led her. I led her spiritually.”
“Is that all? Where did you find her—spiritually?”
“Going—shall I say?”
“Why, of course.”
“Going to the devil.”
“Oh, and did she say so, or could you see for yourself?”
“I could see. Agnes—Miss Agnes, if I were not afraid of lowering myself in your esteem, I would tell you something.”
“Don’t tell me anything dreadful,” she cried, stopping her ears. “I know it must be something awful.”
He waited for her to unstop her ears, which she did very soon, and then he spoke, but on another subject. She replied listlessly, leaning her head on the back of the sofa. He told her about his church and she yawned. He had been delighted to see her in the congregation, and she yawned again. “I thought you were going to tell me about that woman,” she said.
“But you stopped your ears.”
“And don’t you know that when a woman stops her ears it’s the time when she wants to hear?”
“I didn’t know that.”
“You didn’t? Then you needn’t tell me anything.”
“Yes, I believe I ought to tell you—only you.”
“Why only me?” she asked, her eyes half closed.
“I don’t know, but—”
“Then, why did you say only me?”
“Because I—I think more of you than of anyone else.”
“Oh, if you think it’s your duty you’d better tell me.”
He told her, and she sat up straight, looking at him; she got up and walked slowly to the opposite side of the room, he gazing at her. He reproached himself for telling her. She was young, lived apart from the great crowd, and could not understand. He could not see her face, for she stood with her back toward him, but displeasure has many countenances, and he could see that his story had offended her. Her head was slightly bowed, and she was no doubt weeping; he heard her sob. Then she had loved him, and her love was dying. But he did not dare to go to her, to the death of the love he had murdered. Suddenly she turned about. Her face was radiant, and she was laughing. He stared at her in amazement.
“It is exactly what you ought to have done,” she said.
“And I am not lowered in your estimation?”
“For being a truer man than any man I have ever known? Oh, no.”
Yes, she had turned round, laughing, but there were tear stains on her checks. He did not know that she had passed through a struggle of doubt to reach laughter. Surely she was a strange creature, worthy of being loved and capable of loving; but he did not tell her that he loved her. The words were warm in his heart, but felt cool upon his lips, and he did not utter them. He talked in a round-about way, in an emotional skirmish, he afterward said to himself, and then took his leave, as the Judge and Florence had returned. Just outside he met Bodney coming in. “Oh, by the way, the very man I want to see, Mr. Bodney. I want a talk with you.”
Bodney thought that the preacher was going to thank him again for the money sent to the church, to tell him how much good it had done. “I will walk along with you,” he said.
“This is a peculiar world,” remarked the preacher, as they strode along, side by side.
“You might almost say a damnable world,” Bodney replied.
“No, not quite so bad as that.” They walked on in silence, Bodney wondering what the preacher wanted to talk about, the preacher wondering how he could best get at what he intended to say. “You are well acquainted with Mr. Goyle,” said Bradley.
“Why do you speak of him? Why didn’t you say I am well acquainted with the devil?”
“I suppose I might as well. Do you believe him desperate?”
“In his milder moods, yes; at other times he goes beyond that—he is inhuman.”
“Ah. Do you believe that he would snatch a man’s watch?”
“He would snatch a woman’s child. He is a beast. But you have something to tell me. What is it?”
“I will, but as I do not wish to bring someone else into the glare of scandal, you must keep it to yourself. The other night, as I was going home, a man standing under a lamppost asked me the time. I took out my watch and he snatched it and fled down an alley. I didn’t notice his face, or at least I could not see it very well, and I did not recognize him, but I have recovered the watch and have been told that it was Goyle who snatched it. And you do not suppose that there is any question as to his being bold enough to do such a thing.”
“Mr. Bradley, that man would do anything; he is a footpad or a sorcerer, just as the humor takes him. Now, I will tell you something. He made himself my master, so completely that at times I could not resist him. But the other day he made me an infamous proposition and I struck him in the mouth and knocked him senseless upon the floor. Blood ran out of his mouth, and it was black—black, I will swear. I left him lying there, and when I returned he was gone, but he had written a note to me, a note in which there was not a word of reproach or resentment. He said he was going away and would see me upon his return. That note frightened me, and I have been scared ever since, dreading to meet him, for I feel that he has some sort of reserve power to throw over me. I would go away, but the thought that he knows all my movements is constantly haunting me. You may smile at this and say that I ought to be stronger, that it is superstition, and that we are not living in a superstitious age, but I tell you that in his presence I feel a weakness come over me to such a degree that when I am with him I have only one strength—a passion for gambling. I have let him ruin me, soul and body; I—”
“I will pray for you,” said Bradley.
“You might as well pray for rain, and nothing could be more foolish than that.”
“What, you doubt the spirit of God?”
“I believe in the spirit of the devil. But this is jugglery. If he had left me a note full of resentment, or had even left no word at all, I should have felt that I had conquered him; but, as it is, I know that I am his slave.”
“My dear young man,” said the preacher, “you ascribe to him supernatural powers; you have permitted him to take you back into the middle ages. Such a thing is absurd, in this great, progressive city. See,” he added, pointing at an electric car rushing by. “There goes the nineteenth century, and yonder,” he broke off, waving his hand at a cart shoved by an Italian, “is the sixteenth century. You have let the Italian put you into his wretched cart. Get out—get on the electric car.”
“Your illustration is all right, Mr. Bradley; but he has me in his cart bound hand and foot. But we have both said enough, and what we have said is not to be repeated to others. I’ll turn back here.”
After knocking Goyle down, Bodney had fully determined to make a confession to Howard and the Judge, but upon finding the note his will resolved itself into fear and indecision. He felt, however, that the gambling germ was dead—“germ,” he muttered to himself. “Giant!” he cried aloud. It must be, though, that he would gradually gain strength, and the time for the confession was surely not far off. But he would bring disgrace upon himself and be driven out of the house. He could not bear the thought of seeing hatred in the eye of the Judge. The old man was unforgiving; had not forgiven his son, and would surely send Bodney to the penitentiary. “I can’t tell him yet,” he mused. “I must wait for strength. That scoundrel is thinking of me at this moment, and I know it.” In the night he awoke with a feeling that Goyle was in the room, and he sprang out of bed and lighted the gas. Thus it was for three nights, and on the third morning came a letter from Goyle, not a letter, but an envelope directed by his hand, and in it was a newspaper cutting, set in the large type of the village press. “Last night, at Col. Radley’s, the guests were entertained in a most novel, not to say startling, manner, by Prof. Goyle, of Chicago, who gave several feats of mind-reading. Miss Sarah Mayhew, daughter of our leading merchant, stuck a pin in the door-facing as high as she could reach, while the Professor was out of the room, and then hid the pin under the carpet. The Professor was brought in blindfolded, amid the silence which the Colonel had enjoined. He took Miss Mayhew by the hand, fell into deep thought for a few moments and then went straightway and took the pin from under the carpet, and then, marvelous to relate, ran across the room and leaping off the floor stuck the pin in the exact hole which it had occupied at the hands of the handsome Miss Mayhew. George Halbin, one of our leading lawyers, said that the feat would have seemed impossible to even a man with both eyes open. The Professor will appear at the opera house tomorrow night, and our citizens who appreciate a good thing when they see it should turn out.”
“What have you got there?” William asked, standing in Bodney’s door.
“Just a clipping from a newspaper telling of Goyle’s wonderful mind-reading.”
“Let me see it.”
William read the paragraph and handed it back. “I don’t believe a word of it,” he said. “Those fellows will write anything if they are paid for it. It’s all a lie.”
“It’s all true,” said Bodney.
“What, have you turned spiritualist? Is the whole family going to pieces? Howard has ruined himself with French books and John is so snappish that no one can speak to him. Is that the sort of home I’ve found? Give me that cigar sticking out of your packet. You don’t need it. Thank you. A man who believes the stuff you do don’t know whether he’s smoking or not. Is that John, roaring at Howard? I want to tell you that there’s something wrong here. What do you keep holding that thing for? Why, you shake like a sifter at a sawmill. You are all going crazy.”